Whiskey and Cigars: Bourbon, sortez de ma manière

When I look back on these years a decade from now, it won't be faces I remember, and there will be no awkward moments of comparing our chins to our younger selves. I will remember you by inanimate objects; glasses, bottles, bridges, photos I took late at night on the tops of hills with the city lights underneath us, abstract shots of architectural details you mailed me. Shoes. I have so many photos of shoes. This is more us, these props, this is what our lives actually looked like,let's remember that. It will remind me of the deer that ran across the yard, or the billows of smoke from the grill while we stood around with affable strangers, and you and me in particular we let our egos run rampant, but that's why I love us.   

There are two reasons to drink bourbon; 1) because you hate yourself, 2) because you love yourself. It is a drink for egos, deflated inflated or transcendent. You cannot feel apathetic about yourself when drinking bourbon. The drink demands you instead feel apathetic about other people, seeing them only as orbiting spheres to your own center of gravity. Hence, you must have a very strong opinion about your own material makeup, and you have very little control over what direction that opinion will head, but it will be the truth. 

They call the part of bourbon that evaporates from the barrel the Angels' Share, and the liquor that is left soaked into the wood of the barrel is the Devil's Cut, and so I think logically the part you actually end up drinking should be called the Atheist's Friend. Because it will make you talk about politics, and gossip about people you know, and bond with strangers over the demise of the Western cultural empire. 

The stuff we put in our mouths last night tasted like banana bread, walnuts, fall leaves, grilled meat, cherry wood, lit cigarettes, backyards in Brecksville when we were teenagers, law school lectures, business cards soaked in wine, flooded caves, long drives in Southern Ohio, hot winds coming across deciduous forests in August, candlelight, and wood, so much wood, wooden chairs and decks and tables and baseball bats and futon frames and fence posts and garden walls and broken branches and logs fallen across creeks, all distilled into multiple shades of gold and brown and red. There was only one unfortunate choice, which smelled like mouthwash and tasted like cheap gum. I dumped it out immediately. Turns out you have to make mint juleps by hand, they cannot be bottled. Which is pretty much true about anything good. 

I think my favorite part about the red gold liquors are how hot bright they make the blues and greens appear. 

After the serious intensely decent and friend affirming drinking and conversations, I ended up in a car headed to the Mayfield Panini's for nightcaps of cheap beer and cheap humanity. The Mayfield Panini's, it turns out, is the distillation of 7 different kinds of evil. Laura counted 9 men with earrings. I counted 6 girls I was pretty sure we could convince to make out with each other for drinks. There was not a single person in there who was dressed in any kind of fashionably acceptable way except for one cute older Jewish couple who sat in the corner, obviously on a J-date. As we left, Lou bellowed out a Hall and Oates song that was definitely not playing, and the entire bar looked at us like we were splinters they had been afraid to take out and now they were relieved we were just growing out on our own. Then, completing our juxtaposition of adults and college kids, we went through Taco Bell and spent 30 dollars. 

We stumbled home after close, and sat on the cement garage floor eating tacos while Andrew sang us a song with a cartoon lisp, and there was much revelation about how we are the best sort of people, and how much I'll miss those boys, because we are the people who drink bourbon out of love for ourselves and only stop to think about tomorrow just enough to not fuck it up completely. Though honestly, the tacos were a bad idea. 30 is just old enough to make sure you wake up on time, but apparently not old enough to remember to bring a toothbrush in your purse. I should have thought to wash my mouth out with that mint mouthwash bourbon. At least there was a fan in my face in the morning.

On Bravery, Biking, and Being a Fat Girl

I got this tattoo one year ago on my birthday. It was partly to help me through the end of a relationship, but also because I just wanted a tattoo of something, anything. I was 32, it was time. The best tattoos I had seen on my friends had to do with their occupations; a chef's knife, a hair stylist's scissors, Myles's fucking awesome periodic table. So it had to be a word, or words. And I wanted it to be a tattoo that was a lesson to me, something I needed a reminder of, so that every time I looked at it, I thought "be that" or "do that". The body equivalent of a post-it note. I finally decided on "Brave" because when I thought about everything else I wanted to be in my life - confident, beautiful, smart, traveled, happy - bravery was like a primary color of those goals, it was a Basic Quality, like Empathy or Curiousity, a building block.

 I already thought of myself as brave by then. But I wanted to be braver. I was disappointed with myself at the end of that relationship, not only had I been weak and mean, but the root of all that pain had been fear. Fear of being by myself after a decade of being the other half of a couple for almost 12 years straight, fear of being over 30 and having a mediocre life, of being old and fat and ugly. Getting over being alone was easy. I have lots of people who love me because I love them, and so a few quick months of forcing myself to go out on my own fixed that. The mediocre life? Well, that's a benefit of writing, you learn that mediocrity is dependent on your internal interpretations of your life. This sounds cliche, but if the life of your mind is interesting, then your circumstances will be too. The most standard predictable weekend in the world can give you a good story if you're looking for it. I just had to remind myself of that, and it became true again.

 So that left the last part, those three super powerful words - Old, Fat, Ugly. I'm too vain to think I'm ugly, no matter my size, plain truth. I know I'm not beautiful, but I'm nice looking. I'm nice looking enough that it doesn't matter all that much. I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to think of myself as Old. In my head, I've been the same age since 15. I don't want kids or marriage or a house, so my timeline is pretty much up to me to design, hence the going back to school at 32.

 But Fat. I've been fat my whole life, since 1st grade. This is my body, my shape, this is what I'm used to working with. It's actually done pretty well for me so far. But the thing I think most people don't realize about the Fat Experience is how much Fear comes naturally along with it. It's not fear of other people, per se. I've been incredibly lucky - nobody has ever fat-bashed me to my face except my mother, and she did it with love, as mothers do. If someone tried to insult me to my face calling me a fat girl, I would hardly even think of it as an insult, because yeah, DUH. It's other constant small fears though - being afraid if something is going to fit, being afraid you are just a bit too big for the roller coaster bar to get down over your chest, being afraid to start dragging all this furniture to the curb cause it'll be too hard, being afraid to work out because I'll hurt so much the next day and not be able to go out, being afraid that when you go out to eat you're going to spill something on your chest because it's just so fucking big something is always spilling, being afraid you're going to look stupid in that photo because you didn't hold your shoulders right or you laughed. Being fat, for me at least, has been a constant challenge to get over myself. No matter how ridiculous my vanity or pride tells me I'm going to look, I have to force myself to do it anyway. This applies to things like karaoke, hooking up with boys, dancing, going to the beach. All things I love very much, and I will never stop doing them, but there is always a moment of fear I have to overcome. Luckily, I'm pretty good at being brave, I just don't want to have to be all the time.

 Which brings us to my bike. If you missed it, my car died. I decided to not try buying a new one. Maybe after I move I'll need one, but I'm not even going to think about till I've moved successfully and found a job and started classes. Nope, I'm biking it, or rather I'm trying to. I have a lot of friends who are Bike Kids, they've been relying on it as their primary mode of transportation for years, they all seem super capable and they love it so much. So while it sucks to not be able to go on road trips and explorations this year, I think learning to bike a lot is really important to me right now.

 But holy shit is it an embarrassing humiliating humbling experience. First, there's the fact that my carefully crafted outfits, the fashion aesthetic I've spent years building up as a Fat Girl, can no longer apply. Carey tried to argue with me, "of course you can wear dresses and makeup!" she cried. No sweety, maybe you can. But the minute I start biking any kind of distance, my face just pours sweat, so anything but the simplest makeup is out. I have to wear sneakers or sneaker like shoes, because the first time I tried to go biking in Mary Janes I bruised the fuck out of the side of my foot and it still hurts. So half my dresses are out because I would never wear them with sneakers. And my hair, my god. Helmet hair? Covered in sweat helmet hair? All the sweat in my body comes from my face. Basically relying on biking for transportation means I'm going to look like I just got out of the gym all the time. Sequin dresses are not sweat friendly. So there goes half my confidence already.

 Then there's how bad I am at it. I am not a graceful biker. I am hunched over desperately trying to balance and not fall around corners. I have to pedal twice as much because I have twice as much weight to push forward, and two times less leg strength. I am crazy skittish in traffic, out of breath and panicked, I'm on a Scare High the whole time. The whole thing sucks, a lot. And it sucks in public. Sitting somewhere and being pretty is easy as a fat girl. Biking on a crowded street where every car already hates you and you are beet red and soaked whenever you arrive somewhere is something else.

 So...Bravery. It's needed more than ever. And the best way to gain bravery points is to just hold your breath and do it. I have a whole lifetime of being good at that to back me up, I guess. Tonight, I'm going on my first Critical Mass ride. It's a 6 mile ride with hundreds of people, a good percentage of whom I know. That's 6 miles AFTER I get downtown. I'm going to take the train down, but I have to get to the train station first, and last time I did that I was basically shaking by the time I got THERE, so honestly, I'm terrified. And THEN I have get back home to West Park, AFTER doing this. It will be my longest ride yet, I don't think I've gone more than a mile so far without having to stop. I woke up at like 7am this morning because I was so scared of this. I'm scared of looking like a fool, I'm scared of being the very slowest, and maybe not even being able to complete the ride, and of all the nice people I know who are going to try and be encouraging or ride slowly next to me, which is just even more embarrassing. BUT IT HAS TO BE DONE. It's like the first time I went to the beach with a group of people. Going to the beach in a bathing suit had to be done. Biking has to be done.

So I guess my point is, other skinnier people would be scared of this too. But since I'm used to having to be brave, I know copping out is not an option. I know it can be done if I just get over myself.

 I don't know, maybe I'll be in so much pain this summer I won't even care about getting laid.

Update:
well I made it to E. 61st and had to quit the pack, just had to go much slower and I didn't want to hold people back. So I had a nice leisurely bike down Cedar and when I passed the factories I smelled the cold musty dusty air and just wanted to crawl into one and fall asleep and turn into a ghost.

Update Update: Total tally of miles for the day, 8.6. The actual ride was more like ten miles, but I'm glad i turned around when I did, cause honestly, I barely made it home to my driveway, I was falling off my bike. And I just took the most amazing cold shower. And I rode for the first time in the dark and the pouring rain tonight. So, I'm not disappointed in myself at all.

From the Diary of a Cleveland Lady

Friday: Had one cup of coffee for breakfast, nothing more, didn't want it. Worked all day, it was too revolting. Got a text from Sarah, in town for the weekend, couldn't be more delighted. Sarah is just divine, She picked me up from home, so humiliating to not have a car. Went to Flying Fig to hang out and talk while we waited for her boyfriend to get off work, he is such the cutest and makes the best Old Fashioned. Had two of those, also split one flatbread, chorizo stuffed dates, and softshell crab. Can't stand seafood, but adore crab. Saw simply loads of people we knew. Sarah is so calm and pretty and just being around her makes me feel sane. Ate so much. Did shots with the nicest girls sitting next to us at the bar, who were simply adorable. After Perren got off work, we simply ran to Parallax, hoping they were still serving sushi, because Sarah was totally craving sushi after seeing some art flick. They were, which was marvelous. There were so many old guys in mid life crisis clothes, with the youngest girlfriends. Ate more crab, and potstickers, and then eel? So gross. But you have to try everything. Didn't care for it, it tasted just like a sea battery. Had a pear cocktail that was divine. Afterwards, too stuffed to stay out. Perren drove us home. Stayed up so late texting a boy. Noticed I had picked off half my nail polish again, without even meaning to. The sparkly stuff is so revolting, it just peels off like tape. But I just love the color. Such a sucker.

Saturday: Had to work again, terrible. Felt so sick, and I kept tasting eel in my mouth, too revolting. After work, hung out with Kate, who is adorable. She was in town from Michigan for our high school reunion, which I won't ever go to, because please, I don't make nearly enough money. Had a wonderful time drinking mojitos with her at a biker bar on Lorain which was marvelous, but then they didn't bring out our tater tots till like 45 minutes after we ordered them, which was ridiculous. Left that bar, went to Prosperity, saw simply loads of people I knew. Danielle was there, all dressed up like a gypsy siren, she has the best costumes. Made friends with the cutest pin up girl, got asked why I didn't model for this other girl, which was the best, I love hearing that. Talked forever with Kate, about her marriage and how she's totally a world class athlete now and couldn't be happier for her. Drank coffee, but with brandy in it, cause really. Bartender was the cutest, though I totally thought he was put out with me, but then he wasn't, so that was great. Got home, stayed up too late texting a boy, so frustrating not having a car. Painted my nails pink, because maybe it will hide the constant chipping.

Sunday: Got up early to have brunch with Jonathan. Neither of us had cars, but I just couldn't get a bus because it was a Sunday, so I ordered a cab 45 minutes ahead of time. Just trying to be on time. Cab never showed up, so ridiculous, I hate cabs in this city. Called the dispatch twice and they kept making excuses, so revolting. Finally Shannon gave me a ride, which was amazing of her, because really, so nice. I have the nicest friends. Got to Bon Bon and met poor Jonathan who had been waiting so patiently. Ordered a coffee with three shots of espresso, just because, and sat outside because it was so lovely. Actually got attacked by a squirrel! It came around the bend, and just ran at us! Then it wouldn't leave, or get scared off, kept trying to climb up his leg and jumped on his bookbag. Sounds cute, but actually terrifying. Spent fifteen minutes trying to scare off the squirrel until the owner finally ran it off across the street. Cutest thing ever. Had wonderful french toast with blueberries and corn. Saw loads of people I knew. Myles picked me up and took me and Molly to visit Corrigan in the hospital, so sad. He's all broken, poor boy, but sounded just the same. Went on a mission to get his laptop from his apartment cause he didn't have it and was so bored. Then Colleen picked me up and we went to the beach, which was amazing but so crowded. I don't like Huntington, it's just always bustling. Went in the water for the first time this year, which was freezing. Got home, so tired, just collapsed. Did not repaint my nails, this pink is marvelous. Stayed up forever texting a boy. Really, not even the same boy. Ridiculous.

Monday: Woke up late and was totally going to clean, but then Carey wanted to go on a bike ride. It was so hot, but I just have to learn, so we biked to Ohio City where I got the cutest little lights for my bike. I was so tired, just shaking, which is ridiculous. Covered in sweat and ridiculousness. Walked down to Bar Cento and drank so many happy hour Long Islands. Simply wasted. Talked about everything. Cutest bartender, totally couldn't tell he was English until he said "telly", so adorable. Met up with Krissie, who is just the cutest, and biked to Prosperity for karaoke. I was so revolting looking, like I was wearing pajamas, totally embarrassing. Saw loads of people I knew. Put in a Cars song to sing, and a Paul Simon one, but then the DJ only played my NSync selection, which was totally humiliating. Everyone left early, but I didn't want to, so Tom gave me a ride home. Hate not having a car. Took me twenty minutes to take off my front bike tire to get it in his backseat, he was so patient, but really. Got texts from all sorts of people, but just stopped answering them because seriously. My nails were so dirty, this pink just collects dirt, it's horrendous. Totally went to bed without even showering.

It's like Fascism without the Eugenics part

Let's pretend, just for a lark (or a pigeon or a hen), that by a terrible and insane chain of events, I became the president. On my facebook page, I have my political affiliation listed as "I should just be the leader", let's pretend the Great Squid Who Holds the World in It's Loving Tentacles sees that, and make it so. Here's what I would do:

1. First and foremost - have someone design a kill switch I would wear all the time, so that killing me would detonate a complete records crash of all major American banks. Which isn't as good as a nuclear bomb, but a nice "fuck you" for killing me nonetheless. 

2.  Arrest (or abduct, however you want to say it) every member of Congress that does not sign a loyalty pledge to me forfeiting all their personal wealth if they are discovered speaking out against me or my policies. I should kill them, but I don't think I could. That will probably be my downfall. 

3. Put an end to lifetime appointments for Supreme Court judges.

3. Immediately raise the income tax for any person making more than 250,000 a year. Rewrite and simplify the tax code, no loopholes or exemptions for any businesses. Private universities will count as businesses. No tax exemptions for religious institutions.  

4. Marriage no longer qualifies you for tax breaks or even counts as a legal status, instead you can apply for certification as a Household. 

5. Offer an annual tax forgiveness prize for one winning business who invents a product or creates a process that arguably improves the human condition the most, as decided by a collection of judges, one from each public university. 

4. Make abortions and birth control a paid for government service. 

5. Legalize euthanasia. 

6. Make having more than one child per person illegal. 

7. Increase the boundaries of welfare, in recognition of the fact that increasing technology can only inevitably decrease jobs. 

8. End all federal funding to states that refuse to comply. 

9. Make it illegal to import meat.

10. Let's be realistic, I'm probably dead by now, but if by some miracle I'm not, here's where I step down and let Neil Degrasse Tyson take over. 

Things That Make You So Fucking Metal

Things That Make You So Fucking Metal According To My Facebook and Other Online Social Networks:

garden gnomes
seeing your kid win a wrestling match
making a nice asparagus risotto
buying a Ford Fusion
graduating college
having a barbecue
hauling 800 pounds of mulch out to the backyard
gluten free cupcakes
taking your mom to lunch
hello kitty purses
bowling with your friends on a Thursday night
wearing a bike helmet
getting a tattoo of a carrot

My Perfect Restaurant

The space has lots of rooms, like a house, but a huge first floor of a house, and there are lots of windows in every room, with carved old frames. The lighting is gold saturated, with little accent lights hidden in plants or on mantelpieces, in pinks and blues and greens, skulls with shiny bright eyes and plastic lit up lambs being harrassed by small Aryan masters. The corners are darker, and the walls are covered in different curling peeling swathes of wallpaper, gilt ornate 60s sort of stuff, whole walls of forest wallpaper, silver paisleys, green curlicues, dark red stripes. The ceilings are high, and painted in ancient world maps with sea monsters and dragons marked like Xs. Along the recessed black lighted edges of the ceiling are constellations painted in glow-in-the-dark paint, barely visible, they spill like green diamonds into the edges of the ceiling and keep the cornices spiderweb free. Piped into every room, all the time, regardless of the weather, is a soundtrack of rain, with the occasional clap of thunder or lightning. Over the rain, they play late 90s indie rock and hip hop. The dining room tables are a hodge podge of different heavy woods and styles, the chairs are all worn leather swivel armchairs, with brass rivets in their arms.

 The music is louder in the bar area, which is located behind a heavy door in the back of the house. Opening the door to get in makes it feel like you have left and gone to another place, it swings heavy shut behind you with a loud whoomp!  The bar walls are covered in wood panels and photographs that patrons have stuck up on the walls, framed or not. Just at seat level, all around the room, is a ring of scratched graffiti into the wood, Andy was Here, Lila is a...the floor is black and white tile. Several green shaded hanging lights are above the bar, and around the corners are ornate glass turkish hanging lights, around black steel resin patio tables. The back of the bar is a plate glass window that can be opened up into the backyard, which has another small dirty wooden pavilion, with a fire pit to keep away spiders, and a frog pond that gurgles in the farthest corner. Around the pond are tiny purple lights stuck in the ground among the white night blooms. The bar serves cocktails inspired by the favorite drinks of famous people - Marilyns, Hemingways, Roosevelts, Christies. It takes them 15 minutes to mix a drink, and they do it secretly in the back room. Perhaps Roosevelt himself is making your Old Fashioned. There is one cat in the garden and it hates women.

The menu for the restaurant is all comfort food: glazed beef stew with mashed potatoes and salty soft carrots, white sauced macaroni and cheese, spicy paprikash with crunchy fried latkes on the side, delicate pastas with nonexistent gauze like sauces, tempura fried chicken, salsa covered taquitos. It changes every day based off the market that morning, or that's what they say, but who knows the secret day life of the kitchen. The portions are not huge, they are portion sized. The wine decanters are huge, and made of heavy leaded crystal. You could kill a man with one. The silver coffee pots you can order with dessert are huge. The espresso machine whirs away  making you feel fifteen again. The dessert menu is not comfort food, it's as crazy or weird as the chef can come up with that day - jabanero mentholated ice creams, fennel flavored cakes, lemon brittles, mexican popsicles flavored with milk and cinnamon.

 Dress code is non-existent. All the employees wear their own clothes. Hours are lunch through late night dinner, Sunday through Friday.

College Essays I Did Not Turn In Part 2

When I was 29, my boyfriend broke up with me. Again. I had been involved with him since the tender age of 22, when girls are like tulip petals, and in those 7 years we must have broken up at least 5 times. We would break up three more before it was finally over. At that moment though, on the cusp of thirty, I was less like a petal and more like dried out bark, just waiting to catch fire the minute he sent off sparks. Once it was “over” I found myself so apathetic, I wondered if my tear ducts had actually stopped functioning. The next weekend, his friend Nick offered to fly me down to Atlanta, Georgia for the weekend, the not so nice intentions very definitely implied. I went anyway. I had never been to Atlanta, I love flying, and probably I’m just not a very nice person sometimes, so I went. It did not turn out the way either of us expected. We were awkward and not very much fun together when it came to the things we shouldn’t have been doing, but we were a great team at seeing sights. He took me to the aquarium, the railyards, the original Chick Filet, a hundred little civil war things. Nick was a photographer, and so everywhere we went there was a constant clicking that accompanied us, like we were a horde of insects scuttling across museum floors.

I came back resolved to two things; 1) to never talk to Nick again, and 2) to buy a camera, and so that’s what I did. It was a Panasonic Lumix, and I loved it immediately. I was never one of those girls who took pictures of friends or parties or graduations. The only camera I had ever owned previously was a cheap pink plastic thing my parents bought me to take to Space Camp. In the few photos of me that exist before this time, snapped in cars or dorm rooms, I am always squirming and uncomfortable because I knew how unphotogenic I was, with my squishy Irish face and my Dad’s tight lipped smile. But Nick had showed me I could just take photos of anything, and in particular, trains. So I put on my hiking boots, and went to the Cleveland Flats, which is our valley of crumbling industry, armed with my laptop and fascination.

I started like every other beginner by taking pictures of graffiti on boxcars. The graffiti led me into the abandoned warehouses, and the warehouses into an obsession with forgotten buildings. I found crumbling churches, huge storage areas where green plastic lent the piles of tires an Emerald City glow, decrepit masonic temples with secret symbols painted on the podiums. I had partners that would come out with me on my off days for adventures, and I scoured satellite maps for areas to explore in parts of the city I had never ventured before. It was, for lack of a less obnoxious word, empowering. I started to compose stories for our adventures, tales of fugitives or fleeing populations of gnomes. Each building I found became an ecosystem, a carefully balanced world of monsters and history.

I had been lost as a writer before this. Long diseased relationships, especially with people you truly loved, can do that to you. When there is a constant feed of personal drama, it’s hard to get your brain to think of something besides yourself. Buying that camera gave me a reason to look outside my own life, and the more I used it, the more in love I fell with cities. Now every city I go to is a museum and a zoo. I take care to notice details, architecture, to look in between cracks and go down streets I have no reason to. And instead of feeling like bark inside, I feel more and more every day like a varnished piece of oak, worn down by constant touch, but only getting shinier with use.

College Essays I Did Not Turn In Part 1

In 8th grade, I wrote an essay about the Constitution for a contest. I don’t remember what my essay was about exactly, but I’m sure it was full of big words. I was the kind of fat little girl who wasn’t particularly funny or particularly pretty, so I instead tried to be particularly smart. I read all the thick books on the high school reading lists my mother  printed out, and I paid rapt attention at every historical  fort or clapboard house we stopped at on family trips. I went to space camp, computer programming camp, and science camp at the boys’ school. I was sickeningly stuck up, full of my teachers’ praise and the adoring pitying eyes of other parents (other parents always feel pity towards the really dorky kid). I thrived on the adulation of adults.

The only other real competition I had for this contest was a boy in my own grade named David. He was a  smart,  popular, very cute boy and I was in love with him, in that obsessive selfish way that only a 12 year old girl can love another 12 year old boy. I wrote his name on every surface I owned. So of course, to his face, I was even more stuck up, even more prone to awkward bitchy comments. Years later, when we were friends after high school and drank in neighborhood bars together, he was the only one of my middle school friends who remembered me as angry and mean.

The day they announced the winner of the contest, they called me and David out of class and brought us downstairs to the school library in the basement. It was a small room across from the cafeteria, and the nun who ran it was old and feature less, in my memory her face has been rubbed out with an eraser. Mr. Harkness, our English teacher was also down there with her, waiting. Mr. Harkness was the "mean" teacher in a school full of nuns and hippies, he looked at every child under his care as a lead poisoned drooling moron, except his tiny circle of golden students, to which David and I both belonged. David because of his general charm and intellect, and me because of my passive weirdness and ability to follow directions. Mr. Harkness had a sharp nose, was very tall, and taught me the worst thing any teacher could do to me was disapprove. He stared down at the two little scholars waiting anxiously in front of him.

“ It was very close, you both did very well, but David has won first place and Bridget, you’re runner up. David, this means you get to choose what you would like as a prize.” Mr. Harkness gestured to the two very large heavy books to choose from - a Oxford dictionary and an anthology of science fiction short stories. My heart dropped. I had no use for a dictionary, and what 8th grade boy wouldn’t choose science fiction? Imagine my surprise when David actually, of his own volition, chose the dictionary! I couldn’t believe my luck. I wonder now if he did it on purpose, because in the end he turned out to be the kind of adult who would do that for a colleague, and I turned out to have no subtlety at all, ever, my entire life, so it must have been obvious which one I wanted. I always stare at things I want.

The book weighed 20 pounds and had a bright orange hard cover with gold writing on it spine. It was the first science fiction I had ever read that wasn’t written for children and therefore silly. There were beautiful descriptions of ships crossing stars, alien religions, time travelers and tech junkies and sentient computers. The stories were all from the early golden days of science fiction, when everything was published in magazines and all concepts were new and fresh. Every classic storyline was there - the cold war robots who killed their masters, the mining camps full of clones on Mars, Japanese dinosaurs brought back in time, the aliens who trick the kids because they are children and easily manipulated, the little black box that connected you to Big Brother/society and was the very first smart phone. Over the past 20 years, I have gone back over and over again to this book to find some image stuck in my head, or a description that tugs at me.

Later there would be other collections and anthologies and magazines, there would be O'Connor and Atwood and Fitzgerald, but that was the day I fell in love with the short story.

Why Discussing Politics on Facebook is Bad for You

Every few days, everyone on my facebook feed gets the politics bug. I don't know why. Scratch that, I do know why. It's because we all have the same friends, and so when you share something, all of your friends who are also my friends share it, and then more stuff like it, and suddenly the entire internet has a theme. At least, my view of the internet. My little tiny window directly influenced by who I choose to be in my feed. Today my window looked out into discussions of whether Joss Whedon is actually a feminist, an essay everyone posted about why traditional marriage was a misnomer, and then an essay about modern neuroses being the product of a capitalism free market society. I saw each of these things three separate times. I think I may make a new rule for myself against reposting, it smacks of incest. So much repeating.

 These are all very argumentative shitstorm topics though, and it got me riled up, my post whiskey juices flowing, and I really wanted to get into an argument over one of them. Maybe the marriage one? Definitely the capitalism one. I had points! I wanted to make them! I wanted someone to disagree with me, so I could burrow down deep into those points and discuss them vehemently!

 I posted on my facebook wall: It's politics day! Let's Argue!

 The problem is, there's nothing to argue about. Because out of my 814 facebook friends, I only know of two that would vocally be willing to disagree with me on the capitalism thing, and three that I could maybe argue the Whedon As Feminist Thing, if they cared to, but why would they? Why would I? Almost across the board, the people I have friended are tolerant liberals. Even if they disagree on a little point, like if God exists, they are still not going to argue about it, because they are polite and understand there are other viewpoints and we should all act like adults (adult being a code word for not fighting back). Boring. The responses I got to my facebook post were snarky jokes, and I made jokes back, and then all of sudden we were right back in the middle of a meaningless thread with no real exchange of ideas, just trying to outjoke each other about rightwingers and tea. I love my friends, they are funny people and witty and pithy, but how many threads like that do you participate in a day? The first instinct on facebook or twitter is to go for the joke. If we are funny, then more people will like us and respond and we'll feel rewarded, that's the whole point of social media. It's why both those forums are flooded with posts that are nothing more than emotional triggers - humor or "inspirational sentiment" or righteous anger, those are the quickest ways to make people click on something and thereby acknowledge you.

 It made me miss the message board. Sure message boards were vicious and stupid, but at least they were accessible to people not already approved by you.

 The other problem with politics on facebook is that it takes the nuance out of the discussion. You post something about gay marriage. Your friends all agree with it. In fact, they are already aware of whatever new story has broken but they repost it anyway. Their friends all agree with it. Maybe some distant relative doesn't, but your facebook post isn't going to change their mind, and anyway you've got them on a filter because you don't want their super conservative crazy talk clogging up the feel good righteousness of you and your friends. How can you make jokes about crazy teabaggers if you let your crazy teabag aunt read it? If you do get any disagreement, it's quickly nullified by the snarkiness of your overly witty friends. And we're right back to making jokes. Nobody learned anything.

 Of course I'm oversimplifying my experience. BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT FACEBOOK HAS TAUGHT ME TO DO.

 And real political theory? Real analysis of how an issue might affect someone other than yourself, a discussion not just of your own personal emotions but of actual facts and statistics and philosophies, is almost completely absent.

 Discussing politics on Facebook makes you feel more informed while in fact just stroking your ego and warping your perspective of the real world, all those people you are not connected with who still exist. Your friends, though a majority in your life, are not reflective of the whole. It's the glass bubble of your social economic class bias magnified and seemingly validated. We have isolated ourselves in little internet circles of people we are comfortable with. A medium that should have made us more worldly instead makes us more provincial. If we do ever have to interact with dissenting opinion in the real world, we run right back to our bubbles, and let the responses flow in about how we were right and they were wrong and blah blah blah people suck. It feels so good to have people tell you that you are right. It's addicting and easy.

 I guess the point I'm trying to make is I want to be challenged, I want to have to think and defend myself. But that isn't going to happen online anymore, because the insulation around our chosen social circles is wrapped so tight it's cutting off circulation. And when all this initial social interaction happens online, our real world interactions become solely guided by it. We meet people our friends already know on facebook. We make plans on facebook. We go to some event and talk to only people we already know on facebook. It's getting musty.

The State of Mom's Farm

For Mother's Day, Carey and I drove out to Mom's farm in Kingsville, smack dab in Amish country. There are little boys in black hats and bright blue cotton shirts everywhere, and when you drive down the gravel road to her farm, you have to watch out for the farm cats jumping and running through the fields. It was my first time out there since winter, and the main house is built now, with a proper kitchen and living room stove and porch. The lawn is still torn up and unturfed, but there's a pond now, that's filling up quickly with rain water. My mom and dad are good at building homes. First they renovated the house on 54th, and turned the empty lot next door into apple trees and gardens. Next they renovated the house on Archwood, and the backyard became a secret garden. Now she's got this whole new house, built from scratch, a well, a pond, animal pens. It's their talent, making places to live. 

Bruno the Landshark/Dog is obsessed with killing the goats. All he does the entire time he's outside is run around and around the perimeter of the fence, trying to get in. There's no distracting him, and around the fence is a deep muddy rut he's worn down with his circling. He is singleminded in his passion for goat. Elf, the little black and white goat, just runs around teasing him, moseying up to the fence then dashing away as he tries to nip her nose. He got in once, and she's got a big chunk taken out of her hindquarter to prove it, but she won't stop.I love her best. When I was trying to feed them, she practically climbed up on the stable roof trying to get at the bin, pawing at the tar with her long spindly legs. I wish I could put her on a leash and keep her as a pet, teach her to fetch frisbees and chase balls.

Daisy the Insanely Absurdly pregnant goat has still not popped yet. She's practically carrying a full grown goat inside her. She waddles around eating, always eating eating eating.

The new addition is Francis the baby steer. Don't get upset but Mom says she's raising him for slaughter. There's a good possibility Carey may launch a guerrilla rescue in the dead of night before that happens. I know Mom is a farm girl, and can kill things, but we'll see. He's going to have get inconveniently big before that happens. Right now he's the cutest stupidest thing in the world. All he cares about is suckling on things. Your fingers. Your arms. Your legs. Your skirt. If you don't let him suckle, or if you do and he figures out there's no milk coming from your elbow, then the headbutting starts. He's kind of a brat. Even Bruno leaves him alone, he's already too big to be practical prey.

mouth!

mouth!

I don't have anything smart or witty to say about Mother's Day, only that I admire my mother's ability to reinvent her life at will. New homes, new jobs, new people. An army brat, a party girl history major jetting around Europe, a hippie midwife spiritualist, a church going nurse, and now the retired Farm Mother who lovingly calls her livestock assholes as she puts them to bed. She just decided she was going to make this place exist, and then she did, that's brave and strong. I wish it was closer, but it's turning out beautiful. Man, I can't wait for baby goats.