Ogling

Okay, so i really thought that I wasn't going to update until after my Capstone was done, but I found myself with twenty minutes before Preston and Stephanie's senior show, so I thought that I'd give you something brief to think about.

Starting this past Thursday (the day of Edgar's Ashes), it has been warm in Rome. And by that, I mean Southern warm. Think the upper 80's and lower 90's. My friend Liz from Minnesota has come on record to say the weather is "ungodly" and "awful." She gives it two stars for experimenting but for the experiment falling flat.

Regardless, I deal with the weather as best I can--I throw on khaki cargo shorts, a solid t-shirt, and I finally clean out the pockets of my jackets where my keys, wallet, and phone have resided since mid-October when the air first dropped to 60. I spend as little time outside because my skin has the pale, luminescent glow of a vampire (think a for-real vampire, not a Rice or, even worse, Twilight). So, I dash between buildings and tan by the light of a computer screen as I desperately pound out the last four papers of my undergrad career.

But, in my dashing, I have noticed something: the heat has made Shorter clothing optional. Not full on European-nudist beach, but certainly a good old American beach. Like, a few days ago, I was walking through the front circle, and people were playing Frisbee, everyone shirtless and at least semi-attractive. Now, it would be one thing to do this on a practice field or in front of a dorm, but this is the main lawn of the college. And there have been a lot of tours lately. And I'm not a prude, by any stretch. Here's my problem:

If you're going to strut around without a shirt on, I'm going to stare at you. Especially if you're attractive. If you don't have a good face, then I'll look at your above average chest. I'm not going to perv out on you, but I appreciate beauty. And sometimes, I'm simply over inner beauty. I just want to stare at something hot. Which isn't a problem--I embrace the fact that everyone exists on multiple levels and one of them (that I love, at least) is physical.

Let me put it this way: for once, I'm glad Shorter has so many athletes.

My problem is that good ol' Shorter is conservative as hell. And if I stare too long, I'm going to get harassed. Or hit. So, I can't enjoy the scenery because I don't enjoy the write kind of scenery because I want the bitches with the huge tits in the tiny bikinis to get out of the way so I can look at the guy who's hitting on them.

And that just seems like a tragedy. So, I do the good ol' soft focus business and try not to relive a Lifetime horror story. Because honestly, the weather's too beautiful to bleed or spend it in an ER.

Time to Post

Hey everyone,

I'm sorry that I haven't updated in about a week. As most of you know (because you were there), my theatre Capstone, the play Edgar's Ashes (which I wrote, directed, set designed, light designed, and acted in) went up Thursday night. Since that time, I've been going hardcore trying to get caught up on all of the class that I have been ignoring, including my 20-page English Capstone paper so that I might actually get out of here with both of my degrees.

In the mean time, enjoy this video that is a response to the NOM video that has been in the news lately.

A Friend's Wedding

I like the format of having a little taste of something at the top of my posts and then getting to the meat of telling a story.

Today's short bit: The Gay Agenda. For all of you heterosexuals out there, here's a look at the gay agenda for Monday, April 20th, 2009:

1 PM: Get out of bed
2 PM: Get dressed
3 PM: Find somewhere that will serve brunch if you bitch about it long enough

That's it. That's everything we've planned for today.

By the way, for those who are interested, I will appearing...well, I guess that's the right word...on Jamel and Eric's radio show this Friday at 3. Dr. Werner will also be there, so I'm sure we'll be talking about the gay at least a little. Tune in or watch in on channel 48 on campus.

And now, a story, courtesy of my friend Jackie:

This past weekend, Jackie attended her brother's wedding. This was an accomplishment in and of itself. Because, you see, Jackie's brother was making a mistake.

Prior to the wedding, Jackie's mother had found out that Angela, Trevor's (her brother) fiance got fired from her job for stealing. However, her kleptomania was overshadowed by the even more harrowing revelation that Angela was also popping pills. A lot of them. Of the painkiller variety. But, instead of going to rehab, Angela said no no no and instead, plans to marry Trevor proceeded. When confronted with why he wanted to continue with the wedding, Trevor said, "I can fix her." Trevor's a mechanic; I have no doubt that he could fix the click in my engine or restore my car, but I seriously doubt that this enables him to change a druggie. Especially when we're almost positive that he gave her pain pills last summer.

Oh, and Jackie's mom has cancer but hates to take pain meds. She's allergic to codeine so she has straight up morphine. She doesn't check her pills, and all of the pills in the house live in the same place: a lazy susan pharmacy in the kitchen. So, you could easily play the I'm-going-to-grab-an-antacid card and pocket a few of the higher powered bits.

Now, I love a down home wedding as much as the next guy, but this one, from what I here was extra-special. First off, junkie the clown has gained a lot of weight since her dress was designed. And by that, I mean they had to let the dress out. Twice. And come the wedding day, you could see her belly-button through the fabric. I don't have a common about that; sometimes, things happen. Like twins.

We only suspect she's pregnant, though. We have no proof.

So, anyway, Jackie was impressed into service as a bridesmaid. And what is an awful wedding without an awful bridesmaid's dress? The colors of the wedding were terracotta, cornflower blue, and sage green. So, this:

I mean, I guess it goes together in a somber, muted sort of way. It...totally...makes me think spring wedding. Top that with the fact that none of the dresses matched in cut, style, or fabric, I'm sure the wedding party looked like runaway refugees from 27 Dresses.

The other two bridesmaids were the bride's sisters. One of them, in the words of Jackie, has "an elevator that has never hit the top floor." She wore her Letterman jacket almost the entire wedding. The other sister...I can't remember, but the overall effect was that this was a classless lot.

The bride's father kept peeking into the bridal room to check on everything. Which is creepy, because everyone is changing in that room.

Now, I had offered to attend this wedding with Jackie and a mutual friend of ours so that when the minister asked if anyone objected, I could stand up, stop the wedding, and walk out. But, I didn't go. It wouldn't have mattered if I did, though, because the minister skipped that part of the ceremony.

I know that people only step weddings in the movies. But if you're so worried that someone is going to have an objection to the marriage as a minister, maybe you should refuse to perform the ceremony. Maybe there are major issues that need to be worked on before people make lifelong vows.

At the reception, because they are good Southern Baptists, there was no music and no dancing. Jackie was the only woman above 18 who was not married. Thus, she grabbed the bouquet (only after letting it drop to the floor when it was thrown and staring at it for a few seconds, though).

So, a classy wedding was had by all. And then I found out the classiest bit of all: the bride's family makes their living by making jelly. Like jelly. As in jam. In fact, so into the jelly business are they, that that was their wedding favor: jams in all varieties with the couple's engagement photo on the label. Don't worry; people could take any kind that they liked. The have a separate jelly kitchen in their home for the making of jelly. It's what they do.

And it's nice to know that, whatever turns my life may take, I won't be married in an awful color palette in a dress that is now too small for me, given away by parents who make jam for a living. I may do a lot of classless things, but I shine in comparison.

Oblique Look at Early Childhood

A piece of the Internet:

A writing device that I use when I get stuck is Brian Eno's Oblique Strategies. While I've never seen an actual deck of these cards, I do use this website to provide me a unique way of looking at a situation when I get stuck writing. It's a random server that gives a lot of different ways of looking at problems.

A story:

Scenes from the Academy

When I was four years old, I attended Covenant Christian Academy, a Christian private school in Panama City, FL. Originally, I only went three days a week: Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Other kids went everyday, so I had to learn very early that if I wanted to participate and do everything, I had to be able to do tasks quickly so I could catch-up on what I missed. If I wanted to make a J out of assorted legumes and construction paper, then I would to have blaze through my math sheets and eschew coloring in true colors for broad strokes.

In the first grade, we had a school-wide Thanksgiving event. My class was better than the other first grade class because we had real feathers for a pine-cone turkeys. The other class had construction paper feathers. We won so hardcore. We glammed up our turkeys with so many feathers that they looked more like a drag queens centerpiece or the NBC logo than an actual Thanksgiving symbol, but we as children fully embraced the concept that more is more.

And then there was the meal. They took us to the meeting hall and sat us all at long tables. Half of us were dressed as Indians and the other half as Pilgrims. As a child who hated being sticky, I obviously sided with the more civilized English. From there, the meal started.

Our re-enactment was pretty true to the original: we Pilgrims brought guns and smallpox and the Indians brought corn and that commercial 80's where the Indian cries that tear because of littering. We ate a big meal and the Pilgrims forced all of the people dressed as Indians (which, why did we call them Indians? As a child, I'm sure I could have wrapped my mouth around the words "Native American.") to march the Trail of Tears and go live in Oklahoma. Then, we fought the British. Okay, maybe not really. But we did have a meal.

I have always been a huge fan of ketchup, and the fact that there was no bottle on the table for either my potatoes or turkey was distressing. However, on the side of my plate, nuzzled between the roll and the dressing, there was this gelatinous blob in roughly the same color as ketchup. I tried to dip my turkey in it, but it wouldn't give. Always a rational child, I assumed that the ketchup had congealed because it was too cold in the kitchen. Thus, I scraped some on my turkey and ate it. I promptly wretched--as much as I loved ketchup, my first encounter with cranberry sauce left something to be desired. One of the den mothers of my class explained the dish to me and told me that I'd like it later in life.

I've always hated that--just because someone is older doesn't mean they know a damn thing about you as a person. Instead, what it means is that they think that the next generation will be a copy of the current one, and, thus, their experience can inform the future.

A Quote and "A Childhood Savior"

"The only thing of value anyone has to offer
is their uniqueness
and individuality
no matter who you are or what you do.
Life your life.
Notice what you are really thinking about
Write about that.
Show us what you don't want anyone to see.
Remember that while art can be product
product can never be art."

--Penny Arcade, "Manifesto" (as anthologized in Verses That Hurt)

I think that the above quote is a beautiful rendering of an artist's place in the world. Her whole "Manifesto" is fantastic, but that's the big point right there. Now, I'm going to tell a story about something. I'm not feeling very inspired today, so we'll just see what happens.

A Childhood Savior

When I was young (think like a wee child of six and on), my grandmother had this enormous Rottweiler named Ledi. Ledi was the first of my G'ma Helen's dogs. Ledi ruled the north side of the kitchen, curled on her side against the indentation in the wall on top of a ratty blanket. She was a big girl, so she had trouble with her knees. But she a good dog and I can always remember my grandmother having this dog when I was young.

A lot of people say that Rottweilers are evil killer dogs. They can be. Ledi and Bandit (the other Rottie) would attack someone if they thought that any of us were in danger. But that doesn't make them killers; that makes them protectors. Ledi couldn't be allowed outside while the kids were in the pool. We would go under the water, and she would instantly run to the spot on the side of the pool where we went under and bark at us until we returned to the service. Then, she would run along the edge, trailing us, making sure that we were okay.

I know that dogs can't have panic attacks, but if a dog could have, it would have been this one.

I was in the pull one day by myself when I was eleven. It was hot, I was pale, but I do love the water. I always have. In my grandmother's pool, there is a railing, like in a lot of pools, that leads down the center of the steps. Because my brother Mason and I were small, we could slide down this railing in lieu of having an actual slide. Sure, it wasn't the episcent of cool, but it was fun and different. The fact that the adults told us not to do it made it that much more inviting.

So, I was in the pool by myself, the adults trusting me to my own safety. Maybe they were in the kitchen, shelling peas and talking about people, maybe they were asleep--I don't recall. What I do know is that I was playing on the "slide" and Ledi was walking around the backyard, patrolling for threats. I went down the rail a few times, and everything was good. And then, I got up on to it, slick with the water from the pool, sat on it, and fell off the other side.

I had neglected to think of a few things. First, the rail was hot and slick and I should've been more careful. Second, the rail anchored into the concrete on the side of the pool. Third, the top of the rail that I was falling from was about four feet off the ground. Add that to my height of about four feet, and I was looking at a pretty good bash of my head. I could already see the stitches, the blood, and the emergency room in my future. I was ready for it. I Zen-ned out, and tried to just take the fall.

Suddenly, though, I hit something warm and hard in mid-air and tumbled into the pool. From out of nowhere, Ledi had ended up beside me and I fell on her, knocking me into the pool and away from the concrete. I scraped my arm and stomach on the side, but I was fine. Ledi yelped and ran off. She wasn't very fond of me for a while after that, but she saved me then. No one else around and I was headed for a concussion.

Rotties are protectors.

I wasn't one of the people in my family that helped bury Ledi a few years later. She had gotten older and bigger and more arthritic and it had become a tragedy to watch her. The thought of her dying was sad, but it wasn't nearly as sad as the thought of her having to live a life confined to a messy palette on the floor, barely able to get up and eat.

So, she was put to sleep. I don't really remember what happened. I remember watching my dad go out with G'ma Helen and my aunt Lani, but I don't remember digging the hole. I remember a sad meal afterwards. I remember it was twilight, back before the back yard had been completely cleaned out and it was a bit of a jungle back there, teeming with snakes and boyhood games.

They walked back in, and it bothered me that nothing had been said over that grave, and that such a good protector was sent to the earth. But we mourn our pets, and we move on. And the day gives all new opportunities to save and be saved.

Slacktivism

Yesterday, we had an event at Shorter called 1ove (pronounced "one-love") in which people wore black t-shirts that had the name of an issue emblazoned on the back of them along with ubiquitous Verizon slogan "Can you hear me now?" This event was meant to promote awareness of the issues that are currently facing the world.

However, I have several issues with this campaign:

• Awareness is all well and good, but what actually came of yesterday? No money was committed to any cause, no one (to my knowledge) changed their views on a major issue, and no one attempted to actively better the causes that they supported.
• It was supposed to be coupled with a day of silence with the silence only to be broken by discussion of the issue at hand. Few, if any, participated in this aspect of the program. Instead, they ate dinner like they always did, just this time wearing the same shirt as about a hundred other people.
• The issues listed tended to be broad, like "Abortion" or "Cancer" or "Abuse." While I think that all of these things are issues on which one should have a stance (except cancer...who was a pro-cancer stance?), these issues, by simplifying to their overarching themes cheapen the overall message presented therein. More on this below.
  
• Lastly, people were forced to write their message on their shirt when they received it in the Student Affairs office. However, one of my gay friends was told that he was not allowed to put anything about homosexuality on his shirt. So, basically, this event was meant for your one love, provided that that love isn't someone with the same bits as you.

This event has its heart in the right place but it completely misses the point with its head. It seems to me to be another example of slacktivism. See, this event, as I've mentioned, didn't actually do any good. However, because people supported their beliefs, it left them the warm feeling of actually having attempted to accomplish something. Which is foolish. Nobody should get the warm-fuzzies of work without the actual work. Wearing a t-shirt, popping on a wristband, playing vocabulary games for rice, walking 10k, whatever...these are all good steps, but they ultimately fizzle because the focus is not on the issue at hand, but rather on the gross consumerism that defines the modern issue.

The modern issue is fashionable and faddish, and thus, it is completely removed from actual political and charitable action. If someone can be quickly inspired to try to "change the world" then they will just as easily grow bored when the world proves not quite so easy to change.

Last night, at dinner, someone was wearing one of the "Abortion" -labelled shirts. Now, I know Shorter College, so I knew this girl was probably Pro-Life. So, I started a conversation about abortion at the table with some obvious Pro-Choice folks. And they expressed their views, but in absolutist views. But abortion doesn't have two camps, one for and one against. Instead, this multi-faceted issue poses a lot of questions:

• When does life begin? Conception? Birth?
• Whose rights are in question: the individual or the family?
• How much say should the government have in the right to abortion?
• Should the government provide abortions as part of healthcare to those that can't afford it (i.e. Medicaid)?
• Should teens be required to tell their parents if they have an abortion?
• Should women be required to tell their inseminating partner if they want to have an abortion?
• What about the morning after pill?
• What about abortion in the case of rape? Incest? Gross birth defects?
• Is it a women's issue? A healthcare issue? A governmental privacy issue?

These questions were posed to Jamel, Danny, Vizzy, and some others that were around. We talked, but in five minutes, how can you possibly think to cover all of that?

Slacktivism has to go. Do something. But do something that makes a difference in something besides how you feel about yourself.

I Didn't Give Blood Today

Today, I want to take a brief moment to talk about something that I don't understand and that I have passively taken a stance against. It only affects me about once every two or three months, because that's how often I face this discrimination.

Today, we had a blood drive on campus.

Luckily, I didn't know about it until after dinner...it would have completely ruined my entire day if I had known about it beforehand. You see, I would like to give blood. I have no problem with needles, my veins are very visible (seeing as my skin is like onion leaf pages), and I would like to help the world. On top of that, I love cookies and juice. Further, I've never passed out and I think that the sensation is something that I should have in my past. Giving blood seems a good thing from all of these angles.

But I can't give blood.

The reason I can't give blood is this, from the American Red Cross website. Basically, since I'm a practicing homosexual, I can't offer to save a life through blood donations to the American Red Cross (and many other organizations). This has led to me conflicting views on the Red Cross. On the one hand, I support their world-wide mission, I fully believe in the Red Diamond and all of its subsidiary organizations, I like the third Geneva Accord, I want them to continue doing good work, and I want to help.

But, it's hard to support something when they say carte blanche: "We don't want your help."

I guess maybe the community's money is good enough, but not its soul.