The day after 9/11 I started a journal. It didn't last long, but it captured something immediate in the air that I knew I would never be able to summons on my own ever again. However, there was plenty of stuff that happened during that week that I never jotted down, or blogged about, or even mentioned to anyone... not because of any explosive content, but because I am the type of person who actually keeps confidences and secrets when asked.
One of the first things I did that week (that didn't make it into the journal) was e-mail a friend of mine from high school. He and I used to hang out and talk about political stuff all the time. Now he was working at the Pentagon, which of course was one of the targets of the 9/11 attacks but certainly not the center of as much focus as Ground Zero or United Flight 93.
Still, it was a thrilling exchange of replies to each other, completely off-the-record and uncensored, although to be fair it's not like he worked with any classified information and it's not like he told me anything that could be called a typical "bombshell". I mean, it's not like he got a confession out of President Bush admitting that 9/11 was an inside job, but he also didn't completely own the official story (as it stood at the time) on certain levels.
But at least he was there, and his opinion matters more to me than anything I have read or heard since, whether it be online, in print, on TV or from the mouths of anyone else who was not there. Because he was being honest with me, and he also knew who he was speaking to: an open-minded person with a fascination for conspiracy theories-- real or imagined --who also had the capacity to keep his fool mouth shut and not try to milk any inside information for all it was worth.
I don't have immediate access to the printed copies I made of our e-mail chat (they are back in California, in storage, with the rest of my voluminous writings) but over the years I have had the opportunity to pull them out every now and then and compare notes with the contemporary zeitgeist regarding September 11, 2001. Over time, that very zeitgeist has most notably produced what is being called the Truther Movement, but we've also seen the birth of a new phenomenon that is actually just a 21st-Century off-shoot of some tried-and-true human absurdity: seemingly everyone nowadays has become a journalist, activist, or investigative reporter by virtue of the Internet.
I'm all for new information, and I think the Internet is great for connecting the lives of people who may never have gotten together had it not been for the World Wide Web. Ideas get exchanged, and it is very liberating... to a point. Then, after a while it becomes schlocky, and sometimes even serves to alienate people from loved ones even as it draws them closer to complete strangers.
Over the years, I have yet to read or watch anything that resembles my e-mail exchange with my high school buddy, who no longer works at the Pentagon and has a relatively normal life now. That's because nowadays all people are interested in is sensationalism, and frankly the discussion we had via e-mail (although it did have some lively moments and a few prescient morsels of info that have played themselves out rather well in the public arena) didn't contain enough extreme material.
In other words, it was somewhere firmly in the middle of what is the Official Story on 9/11 (Osama bin Laden and 19 al-Qaeda members hijacked jet airliners and crashed them into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon) and the Official Conspiracy Theory (9/11 was an inside job, a controlled demolition, enacted Reichstag-style in order to take away Americans' civil liberties and start a war in Iraq). But because our exchange didn't cleave too wildly towards either extreme, it would not even be considered a worthy topic of discussion in the most fact-based forum thread these days. It would contain no pizzazz, pep, or piss-and-vinegar; there would be no villains and no apparent heroes, and it would not change anyone's life nor would it cause outrage in anyone living comfortably in their Matrix-style cocoon. It wouldn't rock the boat, so to speak.
It would, in short, be boring.
In my experience, I've found that the truth often lies somewhere between fact and fiction. I'm not saying what I know about 9/11 is The Truth... but I am saying that it lies somewhere between fact and fiction, and that I trust that information much more than a link to a You Tube video that, for all I know, could've been posted by a bored housewife or perhaps a CIA disinformation expert.
*/*
Call me crazy, but I have this tendency to want to get to the actual source, and not just take things from second or third-hand gossip. And fortunately for me, I have been the beneficiary of many first-hand accounts in my life, mostly because I seem to work with or go to school with the right people. I myself am not a Mover or a Shaker, but everyone else around me seems to be, and being that I aspire to be a Writer, it's fitting that I have this God-given ability to get unique perspectives from people who happened to be in the right (or wrong) spot when the shit went down.
Of course, these people could all be liars. And that's always my first thought in these cases, and it might be a valid point if it weren't for the fact that I know these people as close, trustworthy friends and not just as strangers I met in a chat room.
But back to what I was saying about 9/11: I worked with a girl who was in one of the towers on that fateful day. I didn't know about this until recently, and to be honest I haven't had the nerve to ask her about it because, frankly, who would want to re-live a day like that, even if it was for the benefit of a former co-worker? She probably would tell me all about it, because we were more than just colleagues: we jammed together on music for a short spell, and I was also friends with her future husband with whom she eventually moved to New York.
Although she hasn't spoken to me about 9/11 (and I did mention that I knew this about her in a recent blog post) I do have the opportunity to see what her opinions on world affairs are, thanks to a social media website whose name I will not plug. She used to be a little more moderate, but now she is firmly to the right politically... and considering that she survived 9/11, I don't really blame her for becoming more conservative. Look what it did to Dennis Miller.
Sure, she and I differ on a variety of political topics, but I would still value her testimony in regards to 9/11 over anything I read from a website or news article. Just because she became more right-wing does not mean that the personal story of her ordeal is invalid. In fact, I would think that it would make it more valid. Like I said about my e-mail correspondence buddy earlier: she was there. She lived through it.
If this were a game of Big Bank vs. Little Bank (in this case, Big Data Bank vs. Little Data Bank) then she would certainly trump most, if not all, comers and pretenders. But funny thing about people who were actually there and not just playing a game of Internet Telephone: they never feel the need to prove anything, and usually have the sense to not exploit it for all its worth.
But I bet if some of my silly acquaintances who send me retarded links to 9/11 theories from all sides of the spectrum ever sent her a link, she'd give it to them with no mercy. And she'd be justified. And despite some of the things I know about 9/11 that she might not know or care about, I would take her far more seriously than the majority of people out there who have "opinions" about what happened that day.
That's because I have a suspicion that what she has to say would lie somewhere between fact and fiction. And if she asked me to not share it with anyone, I wouldn't. But I won't ask her to share because that's tacky. I guess I'll have to wait until one day she decides to spill the beans to me, of her own accord.
That is not as unlikely a prospect as it seems.
*/*
I've had insider tips from all sorts of people on any number of controversial topics, from the O.J. Simpson trial (I worked with someone who'd been subpoenaed to testify on the stand) to the Rodney King verdicts (talked to people who knew both the cops involved and Mr. King) and almost everything in between. In every single one of these off-the-record conversations, I am amazed at the participants' willingness to reveal to me the type of information that could prompt someone of lesser character to write a book, or go online, start a website, and exploit the fuck out of these tidbits for monetary gain or merely for attention.
Every now and then, even I will have to ask aloud to someone giving me the inside dope, "Why are you telling me all of this?" And they will invariably answer: "Because I trust you."
That's the story of my life, by the way: people trust me, because they find me to be completely honest. And while it may be true that no one is ever 100%
completely honest, I will toot my own horn for a moment and say that I am more honest than most. To put it bluntly, I am so honest that sometimes I reveal too much information because I like to talk. So the fact that, on occasion, I can stick to my guns and never say anything about a particular topic is remarkable.
Shit, I feel guilty right now just blogging about it. I'd like to deliver the good, really. I'd love to give up all the juicy details. But I won't. I know it seems like a tease, or like I really have nothing to impart but want to make it seem like I do. However, I felt compelled to blog this because I'm just sick of everyone who thinks they have an opinion trying to tell me shit that I already heard from more trusted sources, or people with NO CLUE as to where their information is coming from telling ME that I am apathetic.
Since the 21st Century is all about redefining things like Political Activism and Journalism, allow me to redefine Apathy for the new millennium.
APATHY is when you don't have any sensitivity or respect for the experiences of others, and will cherry-pick and selectively highlight only the tidbits of information that suit your own needs. APATHY is when you ignore the first-hand testimony of people who actually lived through certain events and instead go with wild speculation from anonymous or unknown and unverified sources.
In short, APATHY is being clueless to what's really going on, simply because you have your own agenda to fulfill.
As for me, I have no agenda. I have no ulterior motives. I'm not out to impress anyone, don't care if the Truth is ever known (because odds are it never will be) and certainly know enough about humankind to know that even if the Truth revealed itself today, most people would scoff at it or wave their hands and dismiss it.
It's tempting to call me apathetic, because I have settled down in the Midwest with a wife, a child, and a 9-to-5 job with good benefits, if not spectacular pay. But then again, I was never really a crusader to begin with-- I just happen to know a lot about things because people say "Psst! C'mere" and tell me, without my having to ask. I've done some things I'm proud of, some other things I'm not proud of, and there's been times when I took the money instead of standing my ground, just as much as I've resisted the carrot and suffered the consequences of not selling out.
But it's also real easy to be left-wing when you live in a Blue State. Now that I'm living in a Red State, the need to be Blue is stronger than ever. And more challenging. In order to keep that focus, I can't be bothered with petty bullshit, dumb lies, and bad logic. I need to be on my toes, even if I'm not out on the front lines participating in Occupy Indianapolis.
So don't bother me about fluoridization of water, the moon landing hoax, ending the Federal Reserve, or any number of silly topics designed to keep our minds off of the real shit going on. And certainly don't bother me about 9/11... not because I can't handle the truth that can be found on thousands of badly-designed websites, but because you can't handle The Truth as I know it.
Besides, 9/11 is old shit. Why you gotta bring up old shit for? Read my last post if you wanna know how I feel about it.
*/*
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
A lot of thoughts going through my mind on this, the 11th anniversary of 9/11.
To be honest, I wouldn't have even remembered had it not been for that good ol' trusty Facebook News Feed. I woke up, showered, started making breakfast and logged on for a second as the frying pan warmed up. I didn't see any references until I'd scrolled down a ways; then I saw the exhortations to Remember, to Never Forget.
And I thought to myself, Forget what?
I looked at the wall calendar next to the computer. There it was, as plain as day: Patriot Day.
Really? Patriot Day? You mean to tell me that today is a day where any person who hasn't voted in the last ten elections, isn't up on current events, or understands the electoral process can just wake up this morning and claim to be a Patriot?
Funny, I thought that if you cared about this country then every day was Patriot Day... but that's just me. And it is an election year...
*/*
Patriot Day is a stupid name for September 11. It should really be called Victim Day, because everyone uses it as an excuse to feel sorry for themselves.
Or maybe it should be called False Pride Day, because of the fact that people claim to be proud of one of the biggest security lapses in military history, which allowed for an unprecedented attack on U.S. soil by a group of terrorists.
I guess you can tell that I really am detached from all the emotion involved. That's because 9/11, in all truthfulness, did not affect me that much. And I thank God every day for that.
And in all truthfulness, it didn't directly affect anyone I know either. Sure, they might have cried or gotten angry and wanted to go out and bash some Muslims in the head, but it didn't hit home with anyone I know.
Except for one person. One person that I know personally was in one of the towers on that day, and she survived.
And she has every right to celebrate today not only as a Patriot but also as a survivor and as a victim. But of course, she won't be seen as a victim. She won't allow it. Hell, I didn't even know that she was in the tower until last year, when she made a comment about it to someone else on Facebook. She probably doesn't even know that I know, and perhaps she is unconcerned with me knowing.
All I know is, if I had survived 9/11, I wouldn't really want to talk about it to anyone. And thus, I have never asked her to tell me her story. Maybe one day, decades from now, when democracy still exists and our grandchildren are still free and people like Dick Cheney are long gone, maybe then I'll ask her. But for now, I don't think it's really any of my business.
But I am grateful to her that she doesn't shove it down my throat every chance she gets, even though she is the one person who deserves to do so above all else.
*/*
It's so ironic that we live in a country where everyone goes on about "Hey man, pull yourself together, get a life, get over yourself!" and then spends an entire day rehashing some old shit.
Wanna know what else is ironic? On my News Feed, I saw a number of 9/11 references. But as I scrolled down, I saw a meme that someone posted. Normally these type of memes grate on my nerves, but today this one in particular stood out.
It said: "You can't start the next chapter of the book of your life if you keep re-reading the last one."
I truly doubt that this person was posting this is reference to 9/11. This person often posts these types of banal aphorisms, and I pretty much ignore them for the most part. But today, that message really hit it on the nose.
I'm not saying that we should ever forget what happened on 9/11. What I am saying, though, is that one day, whether we like it or not, we will forget it.
If you don't believe me, try asking your kids (or someone else's kids, if you have none) what day Veteran's Day is, or if they know what Armistice Day was, or ask them if they know the origins of Memorial Day.
Then, ask them what day Christmas is, or what happens on Easter.
*/*
One last thought:
50 years from now, I predict that a second-generation-Third-World-immigrant will come to America, work their way up from poverty to make a career as a stand-up comedian, and get rich telling off-color jokes. And some of those jokes will be about 9/11. And this comic will be popular with the young people, but the old fogies like you and me will be all up in arms, talking about how disrespectful today's generation is, how they shit on history and their roots.
But if the Constitution and the Bill Of Rights are still in effect 50 years from now, then that means the freedom that scores of Americans died for-- whether they be soldiers or innocent victims of terrorism --will also still be around.
And to be honest, if that day ever comes, I will feel more patriotic than I ever would on any other September 11.
To be honest, I wouldn't have even remembered had it not been for that good ol' trusty Facebook News Feed. I woke up, showered, started making breakfast and logged on for a second as the frying pan warmed up. I didn't see any references until I'd scrolled down a ways; then I saw the exhortations to Remember, to Never Forget.
And I thought to myself, Forget what?
I looked at the wall calendar next to the computer. There it was, as plain as day: Patriot Day.
Really? Patriot Day? You mean to tell me that today is a day where any person who hasn't voted in the last ten elections, isn't up on current events, or understands the electoral process can just wake up this morning and claim to be a Patriot?
Funny, I thought that if you cared about this country then every day was Patriot Day... but that's just me. And it is an election year...
*/*
Patriot Day is a stupid name for September 11. It should really be called Victim Day, because everyone uses it as an excuse to feel sorry for themselves.
Or maybe it should be called False Pride Day, because of the fact that people claim to be proud of one of the biggest security lapses in military history, which allowed for an unprecedented attack on U.S. soil by a group of terrorists.
I guess you can tell that I really am detached from all the emotion involved. That's because 9/11, in all truthfulness, did not affect me that much. And I thank God every day for that.
And in all truthfulness, it didn't directly affect anyone I know either. Sure, they might have cried or gotten angry and wanted to go out and bash some Muslims in the head, but it didn't hit home with anyone I know.
Except for one person. One person that I know personally was in one of the towers on that day, and she survived.
And she has every right to celebrate today not only as a Patriot but also as a survivor and as a victim. But of course, she won't be seen as a victim. She won't allow it. Hell, I didn't even know that she was in the tower until last year, when she made a comment about it to someone else on Facebook. She probably doesn't even know that I know, and perhaps she is unconcerned with me knowing.
All I know is, if I had survived 9/11, I wouldn't really want to talk about it to anyone. And thus, I have never asked her to tell me her story. Maybe one day, decades from now, when democracy still exists and our grandchildren are still free and people like Dick Cheney are long gone, maybe then I'll ask her. But for now, I don't think it's really any of my business.
But I am grateful to her that she doesn't shove it down my throat every chance she gets, even though she is the one person who deserves to do so above all else.
*/*
It's so ironic that we live in a country where everyone goes on about "Hey man, pull yourself together, get a life, get over yourself!" and then spends an entire day rehashing some old shit.
Wanna know what else is ironic? On my News Feed, I saw a number of 9/11 references. But as I scrolled down, I saw a meme that someone posted. Normally these type of memes grate on my nerves, but today this one in particular stood out.
It said: "You can't start the next chapter of the book of your life if you keep re-reading the last one."
I truly doubt that this person was posting this is reference to 9/11. This person often posts these types of banal aphorisms, and I pretty much ignore them for the most part. But today, that message really hit it on the nose.
I'm not saying that we should ever forget what happened on 9/11. What I am saying, though, is that one day, whether we like it or not, we will forget it.
If you don't believe me, try asking your kids (or someone else's kids, if you have none) what day Veteran's Day is, or if they know what Armistice Day was, or ask them if they know the origins of Memorial Day.
Then, ask them what day Christmas is, or what happens on Easter.
*/*
One last thought:
50 years from now, I predict that a second-generation-Third-World-immigrant will come to America, work their way up from poverty to make a career as a stand-up comedian, and get rich telling off-color jokes. And some of those jokes will be about 9/11. And this comic will be popular with the young people, but the old fogies like you and me will be all up in arms, talking about how disrespectful today's generation is, how they shit on history and their roots.
But if the Constitution and the Bill Of Rights are still in effect 50 years from now, then that means the freedom that scores of Americans died for-- whether they be soldiers or innocent victims of terrorism --will also still be around.
And to be honest, if that day ever comes, I will feel more patriotic than I ever would on any other September 11.
Friday, August 31, 2012
cliche alert
Election time. RNC last night, next week DNC.
I want to post more political things, but I am sick and tired of that sinking feeling I get when I post something on Facebook and log off, knowing that someone is going to engage me in a heated discussion on a controversial topic when I log back on. It makes me wish I never even posted anything in the first place.
Don't get me wrong: I still have enough piss and vinegar in me for any conversation or debate you can name. I'm just sick and tired of doing it. Because venting my spleen is not a sign of happiness. It's a sign of angry-ness, and although I will probably always be a little angry and not 100% happy, I do have control over it.
Right? Right.
*/*
Living in the Midwest is like going back in time ten or fifteen years: pot is not legally available at a dispensary down the corner (in fact, even liquor stores are closed on Sunday); food prices (and wages) are ridiculously low, as is the cost of living; and there are at least twelve churches within five miles of my home in every direction.
The liberals and lefties out here are a lot more diligent and less tolerant of conservative thought. That's because in Los Angeles most political types are wannabes and poseurs, whereas out here you have to back up your words if you really mean them. In California there are conservative pockets, yes, but it's mostly a liberal paradise; a person can rant all day long about taboo subjects and never have to face the music or deal with the consequences of their words. This is not exactly the Bible Belt (Indiana is located right above it) but it was once a stronghold of the KKK in the years after WWI. Conservatism and Republicanism run rampant here. If you want to have that magical conversation about religion or politics in the bar, make sure you have your peeps with you.
All of my peeps are back home, so I pretty much keep my mouth shut. Fortunately, Indiana has a lot of liberals, so I do get the chance to exchange ideas with people on the same page. And yet it's not the same, plus I'm no spring chicken-- I have a wife and a kid to think about, so (to use yet one more cliche than I already have) I try not to write checks with my mouth that my body can't cash.
In other words, I'm not trying to get tied to a monster truck and dragged around town just because I like Obama. Call me a coward if you want, but these days I only engage in battles if it looks like it's gonna be a fair fight.
*/*
Of course, I like taking the piss out of both sides of the spectrum, so I pick fights with liberals too. But what I'm finding out here in Indianapolis is that, while there is room for a middle ground, it's more black-and-white than being back home. Whereas back in L.A. I can talk shit about Democrats who are just as bad as Republicans, out here it is more of a mystification. People don't always get the fact that I am firmly to the left on everything. What I always felt was a willingness to self-criticize is perceived out here, I feel, to be some sort of political/ethical self-hatred.
I always felt that the Left's greatest attribute was their ability to examine themselves less subjectively than the Right, but lately that's all been changing. The GOP has had to reflect upon themselves a lot, if only because they are struggling to find a common ground upon which to mount their attacks at the incumbent. But the Dems have become more subjective and less open to (Cliche Alert) taking the plank out of their own eye before taking others to task over that tiny mote. Is this the result of taking back the White House after 8 years of George W. Bush?
I don't know. I mean, I DO know, but I'm not going to get into that anymore. Sick and tired, remember? Such a drain to log onto Facebook and see all these comments waiting for me. Maybe that's why I am spending less time on FB and trying to make more time for the blog: no one is forced to read this, but if I post something in my News Feed or (worse) write a Note and forward it to people, I am not only being invasive but I'm kind of asking for it.
*/*
I'm glad that at least I work with a lot of people who are politically on the Left, or at least have enough of a sense of humor to laugh about their conservative beliefs (if they have any at all). Like everyone else who works, I spend a lot of time with my co-workers so it's important to like them as people. I don't think I could hack it in this city if I had to work at Chick-Fil-A, for example. But who's to say that the people who have to work at a place like Chick-Fil-A aren't nice? Some of them might even be Democrats. Or gay. Or gay Democrats. This economy sucks, people have to get jobs where they can find them.
Is it betraying a principle if a gay person works at Chick-Fil-A? Most would argue that it is. But if that gay person has a domestic partner and an adopted child and they need cash, is it wrong then? Or is it a necessary evil? We've all had to work for an evil corporation at one point or another-- do we ever get absolved of that, even if we go onto more humane employers? Will working at a used bookstore wash my hands of the stink left over from my time at Clear Channel?
Is it wrong for me to eat a Chick-Fil-A sandwich even though I support gay marriage? Was it wrong of me to criticize the gay movement's mishandling of the "No on Prop. 8" campaign in California in 2008? Is there a satisfactory answer to any of these questions, one that will sate everybody's lust for judgment?
I guess the answer to all of these is: depends on where you live. There's a Chick-Fil-A in Santa Clarita, just north of Los Angeles. It's been there for a little over a year. I don't know if there was a huge show of support out there on August 1st. I'm sure that even if there was, it paled in comparison to out here, where there are more Chick-Fil-A's than I can stomach (pardon the pun).
Personally, I think their food is a little bland, but my son loves their playground area. But then again, what does he care? His best friends are the neighbor kids who are being raised by a lesbian couple. Given a choice between hanging out with his best buddies or a chicken sandwich, I know what my son would choose: he'd choose his friends, because that would make him the happiest... and that's what it's all about, in the long run.
Right? Right.
*/*
I want to post more political things, but I am sick and tired of that sinking feeling I get when I post something on Facebook and log off, knowing that someone is going to engage me in a heated discussion on a controversial topic when I log back on. It makes me wish I never even posted anything in the first place.
Don't get me wrong: I still have enough piss and vinegar in me for any conversation or debate you can name. I'm just sick and tired of doing it. Because venting my spleen is not a sign of happiness. It's a sign of angry-ness, and although I will probably always be a little angry and not 100% happy, I do have control over it.
Right? Right.
*/*
Living in the Midwest is like going back in time ten or fifteen years: pot is not legally available at a dispensary down the corner (in fact, even liquor stores are closed on Sunday); food prices (and wages) are ridiculously low, as is the cost of living; and there are at least twelve churches within five miles of my home in every direction.
The liberals and lefties out here are a lot more diligent and less tolerant of conservative thought. That's because in Los Angeles most political types are wannabes and poseurs, whereas out here you have to back up your words if you really mean them. In California there are conservative pockets, yes, but it's mostly a liberal paradise; a person can rant all day long about taboo subjects and never have to face the music or deal with the consequences of their words. This is not exactly the Bible Belt (Indiana is located right above it) but it was once a stronghold of the KKK in the years after WWI. Conservatism and Republicanism run rampant here. If you want to have that magical conversation about religion or politics in the bar, make sure you have your peeps with you.
All of my peeps are back home, so I pretty much keep my mouth shut. Fortunately, Indiana has a lot of liberals, so I do get the chance to exchange ideas with people on the same page. And yet it's not the same, plus I'm no spring chicken-- I have a wife and a kid to think about, so (to use yet one more cliche than I already have) I try not to write checks with my mouth that my body can't cash.
In other words, I'm not trying to get tied to a monster truck and dragged around town just because I like Obama. Call me a coward if you want, but these days I only engage in battles if it looks like it's gonna be a fair fight.
*/*
Of course, I like taking the piss out of both sides of the spectrum, so I pick fights with liberals too. But what I'm finding out here in Indianapolis is that, while there is room for a middle ground, it's more black-and-white than being back home. Whereas back in L.A. I can talk shit about Democrats who are just as bad as Republicans, out here it is more of a mystification. People don't always get the fact that I am firmly to the left on everything. What I always felt was a willingness to self-criticize is perceived out here, I feel, to be some sort of political/ethical self-hatred.
I always felt that the Left's greatest attribute was their ability to examine themselves less subjectively than the Right, but lately that's all been changing. The GOP has had to reflect upon themselves a lot, if only because they are struggling to find a common ground upon which to mount their attacks at the incumbent. But the Dems have become more subjective and less open to (Cliche Alert) taking the plank out of their own eye before taking others to task over that tiny mote. Is this the result of taking back the White House after 8 years of George W. Bush?
I don't know. I mean, I DO know, but I'm not going to get into that anymore. Sick and tired, remember? Such a drain to log onto Facebook and see all these comments waiting for me. Maybe that's why I am spending less time on FB and trying to make more time for the blog: no one is forced to read this, but if I post something in my News Feed or (worse) write a Note and forward it to people, I am not only being invasive but I'm kind of asking for it.
*/*
I'm glad that at least I work with a lot of people who are politically on the Left, or at least have enough of a sense of humor to laugh about their conservative beliefs (if they have any at all). Like everyone else who works, I spend a lot of time with my co-workers so it's important to like them as people. I don't think I could hack it in this city if I had to work at Chick-Fil-A, for example. But who's to say that the people who have to work at a place like Chick-Fil-A aren't nice? Some of them might even be Democrats. Or gay. Or gay Democrats. This economy sucks, people have to get jobs where they can find them.
Is it betraying a principle if a gay person works at Chick-Fil-A? Most would argue that it is. But if that gay person has a domestic partner and an adopted child and they need cash, is it wrong then? Or is it a necessary evil? We've all had to work for an evil corporation at one point or another-- do we ever get absolved of that, even if we go onto more humane employers? Will working at a used bookstore wash my hands of the stink left over from my time at Clear Channel?
Is it wrong for me to eat a Chick-Fil-A sandwich even though I support gay marriage? Was it wrong of me to criticize the gay movement's mishandling of the "No on Prop. 8" campaign in California in 2008? Is there a satisfactory answer to any of these questions, one that will sate everybody's lust for judgment?
I guess the answer to all of these is: depends on where you live. There's a Chick-Fil-A in Santa Clarita, just north of Los Angeles. It's been there for a little over a year. I don't know if there was a huge show of support out there on August 1st. I'm sure that even if there was, it paled in comparison to out here, where there are more Chick-Fil-A's than I can stomach (pardon the pun).
Personally, I think their food is a little bland, but my son loves their playground area. But then again, what does he care? His best friends are the neighbor kids who are being raised by a lesbian couple. Given a choice between hanging out with his best buddies or a chicken sandwich, I know what my son would choose: he'd choose his friends, because that would make him the happiest... and that's what it's all about, in the long run.
Right? Right.
*/*
Friday, August 17, 2012
Last year I only blogged four times, and all of them came in the Fall.
So what was I doing last year in the first half that wasn't blog-worthy?
I had gone back to Los Angeles. The move to the Midwest occurred in December of 2010 but I was having trouble finding a job out here. If I'd stuck it out I probably would've been hired at my current job in February of 2011, but we were living with my mother-in-law and she's retired, gets a pension check and the money was tight.
I had to take care of unfinished business: We left my truck and half of our belongings in Albuquerque, New Mexico after one of the tire pegs on my truck broke. I also had to pay off some tickets in L.A. and grab some things we didn't take with us. But the clincher was when my cousin said there was a job opportunity that was paying well.
With the help of family in Denver, Colorado, I was able to get to New Mexico, fix my truck, drive it back to L.A., apply for the job with my cousin's company, and work my ass off until I had enough money to bring my wife and son back to the West Coast.
But I was going to have to be apart from my wife and son for at least six months.
*/*
I stayed at the house where my grandparents lived, but the house was already filled to capacity. After my grandparents' passed away my aunt and her family took over the house, plus my aunt and some of my cousins were staying there as well. There was room for me in the garage. My dad converted a section of it into a small bedroom the size of a jail cell.
I had to do this because I could not afford rent. I was sending the majority of my weekly pay to my wife and keeping only enough money for gas and food. I crashed on a lot of couches as well. Many of my friends who tried to help me out couldn't understand how I was making so much money and yet sometimes had to sleep in my truck or rent a crappy motel room for the night.
Meanwhile, I got the job with my cousin's company: Bank Of America. Foreclosure Department. As if my situation wasn't depressing enough... but it was money, and I hadn't worked in almost two years. That job kept me afloat and got me through a rough time.
And during that time I began to realize that, while I was back home where I was raised and came of age, my real family was living in Indianapolis, braving the worst winter in recent memory without me.
*/*
I saved up enough money to fly out to Indianapolis for Easter. When I called my wife to tell her that soon we'd be coming back to L.A., she told me she didn't want to come back. Things were going good for her out in the Midwest. She was working in her field, something she couldn't do in L.A. Our son was making friends and going to a good daycare, and they were on the verge of getting into a nice apartment thanks to the money I was sending.
While this made me feel a little bit sick, I also knew that my family was happy. The only thing that would make it perfect would be for me to be there.
I remember the morning after my flight arrived. I hadn't seen my son when I got in because he was asleep. My jet lag caused me to wake up extra early, and I hid behind the couch when our little man woke up and walked into my mother-in-law's living room to watch cartoons.
When he saw me, it was a look I will never forget: a mix of incomprehension and familiarity. He didn't know who I was, and yet he knew exactly who I was, and he was trying to figure it out. It took him ten minutes to warm up to me, but when he did it was as if I'd never left.
That Easter was special, and when it was time for me to go back to L.A. I took a walk with Little Man in the park and talked to him.
"I'm leaving tomorrow. But I'll be back." I don't believe in talking down to children, just talk to them straight up and they'll understand.
Little Man lowered his head. He was not happy about it.
"Hey, listen to me," I said to him. "You have to be brave, for your mama. Take care of her. You're the man until I come back. But I will be back. You have to be strong, OK?"
He nodded his head. He didn't cry or whimper or anything. We just enjoyed our time together for as long as we had it.
The next day at the airport, he was so happy, so chipper. I was the one who couldn't hold back my emotions, but my son made me so proud.
*/*
Six months turned into seven, then eight. But I was now ready to drive from Los Angeles to Indianapolis, with a stop in Denver to recharge with my uncle who had so graciously helped me to get back out to L.A. in the first place.
It would take me five days.
As I drove, I started to manifest symptoms of high blood sugar and diabetes. It runs in my family, and I was overweight with a bad diet. My eyesight became blurry and I had to stop almost every hour to urinate. But I soldiered on.
I think I could've made the trip in three days had I not stopped so much, but it was better to take my time. Soon I would be back with my wife and my son, for good. No more having to send me money from afar, or relying on photographs and video text messages to keep my memory alive for my son. I would not have to miss any more moments with my family.
On August 15th, 2011, I entered the Indianapolis city limits. I was in the home stretch, as they say.
By that time, my wife had moved into the new apartment. It was there that I drove, and when I entered our new home I heard Bob Dylan playing, and I saw my wife and son, and I hugged them and kissed them, and I swore that I would never leave them again.
The year anniversary of that trip back to Indy just passed, and it fills me with a strange sorrow and a complex joy. I can't believe I went through all that. There were some lonesome nights out there, to be sure.
And I wonder if I really had to do all of that, just to end up here. I mean, I think I could've found work if we'd just held out a bit longer. But then again, if we'd been the types to hold on just a little bit longer, we would have never moved out of L.A. to begin with-- we would've just stayed put until that Bank Of America gig came along.
We all did what we had to do. And I suspect that somehow we are better off for it, as a family. My son will never remember that for eight months I was away, and even I have forgotten how long it seemed I was out there until now. My wife is embarking on the career she always wanted, and I am a working stiff once again.
As for how I feel about the city of Indianapolis, that's another blog entry. But suffice it to say, I'll endure anything if it means making things better for my family. And I am not just saying that-- I can back it up.
So what was I doing last year in the first half that wasn't blog-worthy?
I had gone back to Los Angeles. The move to the Midwest occurred in December of 2010 but I was having trouble finding a job out here. If I'd stuck it out I probably would've been hired at my current job in February of 2011, but we were living with my mother-in-law and she's retired, gets a pension check and the money was tight.
I had to take care of unfinished business: We left my truck and half of our belongings in Albuquerque, New Mexico after one of the tire pegs on my truck broke. I also had to pay off some tickets in L.A. and grab some things we didn't take with us. But the clincher was when my cousin said there was a job opportunity that was paying well.
With the help of family in Denver, Colorado, I was able to get to New Mexico, fix my truck, drive it back to L.A., apply for the job with my cousin's company, and work my ass off until I had enough money to bring my wife and son back to the West Coast.
But I was going to have to be apart from my wife and son for at least six months.
*/*
I stayed at the house where my grandparents lived, but the house was already filled to capacity. After my grandparents' passed away my aunt and her family took over the house, plus my aunt and some of my cousins were staying there as well. There was room for me in the garage. My dad converted a section of it into a small bedroom the size of a jail cell.
I had to do this because I could not afford rent. I was sending the majority of my weekly pay to my wife and keeping only enough money for gas and food. I crashed on a lot of couches as well. Many of my friends who tried to help me out couldn't understand how I was making so much money and yet sometimes had to sleep in my truck or rent a crappy motel room for the night.
Meanwhile, I got the job with my cousin's company: Bank Of America. Foreclosure Department. As if my situation wasn't depressing enough... but it was money, and I hadn't worked in almost two years. That job kept me afloat and got me through a rough time.
And during that time I began to realize that, while I was back home where I was raised and came of age, my real family was living in Indianapolis, braving the worst winter in recent memory without me.
*/*
I saved up enough money to fly out to Indianapolis for Easter. When I called my wife to tell her that soon we'd be coming back to L.A., she told me she didn't want to come back. Things were going good for her out in the Midwest. She was working in her field, something she couldn't do in L.A. Our son was making friends and going to a good daycare, and they were on the verge of getting into a nice apartment thanks to the money I was sending.
While this made me feel a little bit sick, I also knew that my family was happy. The only thing that would make it perfect would be for me to be there.
I remember the morning after my flight arrived. I hadn't seen my son when I got in because he was asleep. My jet lag caused me to wake up extra early, and I hid behind the couch when our little man woke up and walked into my mother-in-law's living room to watch cartoons.
When he saw me, it was a look I will never forget: a mix of incomprehension and familiarity. He didn't know who I was, and yet he knew exactly who I was, and he was trying to figure it out. It took him ten minutes to warm up to me, but when he did it was as if I'd never left.
That Easter was special, and when it was time for me to go back to L.A. I took a walk with Little Man in the park and talked to him.
"I'm leaving tomorrow. But I'll be back." I don't believe in talking down to children, just talk to them straight up and they'll understand.
Little Man lowered his head. He was not happy about it.
"Hey, listen to me," I said to him. "You have to be brave, for your mama. Take care of her. You're the man until I come back. But I will be back. You have to be strong, OK?"
He nodded his head. He didn't cry or whimper or anything. We just enjoyed our time together for as long as we had it.
The next day at the airport, he was so happy, so chipper. I was the one who couldn't hold back my emotions, but my son made me so proud.
*/*
Six months turned into seven, then eight. But I was now ready to drive from Los Angeles to Indianapolis, with a stop in Denver to recharge with my uncle who had so graciously helped me to get back out to L.A. in the first place.
It would take me five days.
As I drove, I started to manifest symptoms of high blood sugar and diabetes. It runs in my family, and I was overweight with a bad diet. My eyesight became blurry and I had to stop almost every hour to urinate. But I soldiered on.
I think I could've made the trip in three days had I not stopped so much, but it was better to take my time. Soon I would be back with my wife and my son, for good. No more having to send me money from afar, or relying on photographs and video text messages to keep my memory alive for my son. I would not have to miss any more moments with my family.
On August 15th, 2011, I entered the Indianapolis city limits. I was in the home stretch, as they say.
By that time, my wife had moved into the new apartment. It was there that I drove, and when I entered our new home I heard Bob Dylan playing, and I saw my wife and son, and I hugged them and kissed them, and I swore that I would never leave them again.
The year anniversary of that trip back to Indy just passed, and it fills me with a strange sorrow and a complex joy. I can't believe I went through all that. There were some lonesome nights out there, to be sure.
And I wonder if I really had to do all of that, just to end up here. I mean, I think I could've found work if we'd just held out a bit longer. But then again, if we'd been the types to hold on just a little bit longer, we would have never moved out of L.A. to begin with-- we would've just stayed put until that Bank Of America gig came along.
We all did what we had to do. And I suspect that somehow we are better off for it, as a family. My son will never remember that for eight months I was away, and even I have forgotten how long it seemed I was out there until now. My wife is embarking on the career she always wanted, and I am a working stiff once again.
As for how I feel about the city of Indianapolis, that's another blog entry. But suffice it to say, I'll endure anything if it means making things better for my family. And I am not just saying that-- I can back it up.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Happy Birthday to The Hamburglar. Robble robble robble.
I'm getting that Authorial Vibe again. What I refer to as That Writerly Urge.
I don't have a whole lot to say right now. That is, I have nothing special to report. My life is surprisingly normal. My wife is great, my son is great, my job is great... no complaints here.
I am feeling the need to write again. But this time, my need to be creative is motivated by something other than loneliness and a desire for attention.
Yes, I can admit it now: the crux of my writing in the past was informed by low self-esteem and a paucity for genuine love in my life.
Wait a minute: I was copping to that even back in the day! A cursory glance through my archives proves this. EVERY post was some lovelorn lament or a bitter screed against some perceived threat against my well-being.
I used to get mad when people had nothing to say. I used to get mad when people didn't leave comments on my page. I used to write every day, several times a day.
And now look at me. Sporadic posts, no one reading my scarcely updated entries, and not a whole lot to impart in terms of content.
What happened to me?
Oh yeah, that's right. I became happy.
*/*
Misery is not a prerequisite to creativity. I know this. But I used to think I had to be tortured, whether by myself or by others, in order to create.
I realize now that, while confronting personal demons can result in spectacular bursts of creativity, it is not a prerequisite by any means.
After all, isn't the pursuit of creativity the same thing as pursuing personal happiness? Wasn't it my goal to be satisfied with what I had accomplished through my dalliances in writing, music and art?
The truth is, I am proud of the things I undertook. I am proud of the works I created, even if they never went beyond my own personal circle of friends and associates. But when I look back and see the pain I was in, that kind of makes me shutter.
It's sad. It's so obvious now that I was not happy. And that marred my work.
I'm glad to be writing from a healthier perspective, that's for sure.
*/*
So I perused the Archives and found this post from December 2004. Rather than link it, I am going to simply cut-and-paste the relevant section of the post.
I think it speaks volumes about my state-of-mind back then. But it also serves as a forward reminder, in a way. It's almost as if I anticipated the day when I'd be slacking in the blog department and needed to send myself a wake-up call for posterity.
That makes me seem prescient as all hell, but what is art if not bordering on the clairvoyant every now and then?
So here it is. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
And I'll be writing more later. You can bet on it.
*/*
POST FROM DECEMBER 2004
Don't turn your back on the blog. One day, you're gonna need it on your side. But will the blog be there for you when you need it most? Not if you keep mistreating it.
Show some love and respect to your blog. Make at least one post, even if it's two lines, six words, and five syllables long.
If you don't do it for yourself, then do it for me.
Okay?
Hell, I don't have anything to say today, and I'm swamped with work, but I still manage.
I always manage...
Stop browsing for junk online. Stop ordering from Amazon. Stop frequenting gossip forums and porn sites.
All I'm asking you to do is make one fucking entry.
Just one.
If you really are in it for the love, then write one word.
That's all.
OK, gotta go-- I have a life too, you know.
*/*
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