The Picture of Perfection

The world’s human population is now estimated near seven billion souls. Despite this, I assume that many people are like me and often feel hopelessly isolated, despite near constant interaction with other people. I used to joke about this in the context of folding my fitted bed sheets. Billions of people on this stupid planet and I can’t find an extra set of hands to help me flatten this awkward thing into something even close to resembling a nice stackable square. This feeling is even stranger given the constant connectedness of the internet. But if anything, this magnifies the isolation.

In the past week, I have had two different people tell me – you know, I think I want to delete my internet presence. The reason? Because they thought it would make them happier. Sadly, I fully empathized with the rationale behind these initiatives. I tend to flippantly and sarcastically dismiss irritating facebook patterns; most commonly, the social networking braggart. Everyone knows at least one of them. Frequently employed adjectives included in this person’s postings include “amazing” and “best-ever.” These words typically modify the person’s spouse or children. I wonder if these people know they are helping to spread unhappiness at epidemic proportions. There are a great many of us who are situated in this awkward phase of life – between youth and full-scale adulthood – when many of the traditional comforts of home aren’t available to us. Expressions of gratitude are wonderful. When they are genuine, it makes both the person expressing them and the listener (or reader) feel uplifted. The reason these more boastful internet expressions make others feel sad or increase the acuity of their loneliness, is because – in my opinion – they are insincere, and thus greatly exaggerated. It is insecurity in a gratitude costume.

My hypothesis is not 100% proven, and as always, there is a margin for error. However, I believe that were these people so truly consumed with the perfection of their lives, there would hardly ever be a facebook declaration on anyone’s “best hubby ever.” I am convinced that when I reach a period in my life where it doesn’t just completely suck at least 50% of the time, my internet presence will decrease sharply. I am not afraid to admit that I’m only on here as frequently as I am because it is an escape mechanism. Yes, I love my daughter more than I can put into words. But sometimes she makes me feel totally insane to the point where I feel like going all “Girl, Interrupted” and starting a chicken carcass collection under my bed. And then there’s my educational/professional life that is intellectually stimulating, but about as warm and fuzzy as a spool of rusted barbed wire. So, I turn to the internet in my time of need. At least there, I can see that I’m not the only person wide awake at 2:00 a.m.

Thinking about the actual sequence of events that lead to some of these show-off posts can be kind of tragically hilarious. Ok, so you’re having the time of your life with your husband. I’m picturing you at this restaurant, he’s staring deep into your eyes, and you stop him – “Honey, wait . . . just one second.” You pick up your phone and fire off a quick status update on your good fortune. Then you resume making eye-babies. Awkward? Or, your child just used the potty. So you alert the internet. Meanwhile, your child sits teetering on the toilet waiting for you to finish pecking in this celebratory declaration, so you can wipe his/her little cherubic behind. Yes, I’m certain that all 625 of your friends, family, and casual acquaintances are dying to know the status of your child’s gastrointestinal occurrences. You are so completely justified in being happy about these things. But you and I both know it isn’t the proper medium for some of this expression, which leads me to question your ultimate motive here. I believe that you, like me, are looking for some kind of external validation for your existence, despite the fact that you are doing it by acting like that’s not what you’re doing.

I hope that someday, when I’ve obtained the kind of stability in my life that I deeply want, that I don’t feel compelled to tell anyone about it. To me, that is the true mark of fulfillment – when you are so completely satisfied by something or someone that it is enough just for you to express that gratitude quietly, or at least without a large audience. Again, I enjoy seeing the occasional exuberant status. It’s hard to keep loving pride under wraps at times. But, it’s being overdone. When I know what kind of workout you did and at what time, when I see a picture of what you ate for dinner and I know the name of the restaurant as well, when I am privy to the details of your honeymoon, and when I have as much familiarity with your child’s bodily processes as your pediatrician – you need to stop and question your own motives. More importantly, you need to ask yourself if you are really as happy as the image you are trying to project.

The Head and the Heart

I am equally amused and disgusted by how intelligent, well-read, educated people can consider their opinions to be so innovatively unique, while being so unfailingly predictable. I always enjoy reading articles written about religion in the New York Times or Washington Post. Whether the article itself is good or bad, the comments that follow will take the same trajectory, time and time again. First, it will begin with a lengthy comment on how religion is antithetical to reason. The comments will begin harmlessly and with a civil tone, and will slowly acquire an air of condescension. How can these simple-minded fools believe there is something beyond what we now know? Finally, this will devolve into full-scale assault. To have any faith in the unseen is to perpetuate atrocities; religion is war, it is racism, it is everything that is wrong now and ever has been wrong with human existence.

I am not totally unsympathetic to these screeds. Believe it or not, there are some of us out there who can examine religion with a critical eye, while still falling under the umbrella of the religious. To say that religion has been the underlying cause of war is not incorrect. However, wherever a group of people share a system of beliefs and hold them in high esteem - when they are threatened, conflict arises. Is fighting a war for the security of a country more justifiable? Just because the cause being defended is American instead of godly, does it make it less deadly? To say that religion leads to war because prior wars have been fought over religious ideals is a fallacy of composition – war is fought over religion only when a religion (or anything else) is elevated to a national ethos.

Hence, the importance of the separation of church and state. I value both church and state. Many believe this exists in our Constitution for the protection of the state. It absolutely does. I also believe it exists for the protection of worship. I fully realize that there are some in this country who want to imbue the laws with their extremist brand of “Christianity,” which when examined, is often opposed to many tenets of Christianity. (Another topic altogether.) I cringe when I hear, for instance, about a Texas Republican who denies the existence of rapid climate change and instead asks constituents to only pray for rain. But believing that we are all just easily pacified idiots is being short-sighted.

The online commentors frequently attempt to argue the value of atheism and the failures of religion with the same, or greater, enthusiasm as a preacher in a tent revival. This, I cannot understand. First of all, many of the religious adhere to science and reason as much as the atheists or agnostics. The two do not have to be in opposition. (In my opinion, they aren’t.) In addition to a temporal knowledge, religion provides spiritual knowledge. (Or, it should) We cannot, and should not, argue about the validity or invalidity of faith. I hear repeatedly that this faith in the unseen is illogical. As if I don’t realize that. While I would encourage anyone to employ reason in evaluating religion, you won’t be able to attest to the truth of any of it by that alone. I know I can’t prove anything to you; neither can you definitively disprove me. We lack the same frame of reference from which to even engage in a valid argument on the subject.

I try not to support my positions on personal experience, but in the realm of spirituality – it may be the only way. After not practicing any kind of religion or spirituality for the better part of ten years, I threw up a Hail Mary kind of prayer during a particularly dark time. More or less like, if you’re there – I’d like to know. Well, I knew. That desperate little prayer was answered pretty directly. (Happy to share the details on a more personal level.) If you would have given me some anecdotal quip like this five or six years ago , I would have said – “Oh, bless your heart. Would you like some more Kool-Aid? Perhaps a purple shroud and a pair of Nikes?” But I knew this was more than coincidence because of the way I felt - a really powerful feeling that I can’t explain to you, and I can’t prove its existence to you in any tangible way. I think we all might have had a similar feeling in different ways and through different mediums. For instance, when I was in college – I got the same feeling in my choir when we performed Gabriel Faure’s Requiem. It can’t be explained, it has to be felt – and it certainly can’t be argued because words are inadequate. It’s just some kind of internal gauge of what is enduringly beautiful and true, rather than fleeting excitement.

There’s the head and the heart. You can govern your actions with one or the other. When you learn to use both, then you’re really on to something. Believe Me. Or don’t. But let’s not argue about it.

In Vino Et Veritas?

The last year has been a painful transition. I’ve spent the last several years experiencing moments of happiness, or what I thought was happiness, only to come quickly crashing back down to reality. This only led me to try to recreate the tiny spurts of feeling good, which created more confusion. So, I had to boil this all down to the basic. What is happiness? It seems like a very simple question. It’s anything but. My life has been like an attempt to sustain the human body on high-fructose corn syrup. Initially, you feel full and giddy. Then, that sugar-rush wears off and you realize that continued attempts to feed yourself this way will leave you malnourished. One part of the problem is solved; I know I’ve been doing it wrong.

We’re all different, but for me – I had to accept that alcohol was either driving my social life, or it was sitting in the passenger seat giving me directions. I am not going to attempt to turn this into a tirade against alcohol, but I do think it’s a slippery-slope for everyone. Right now, I’m not drinking at all. I don’t have any current plans to do it again. I have the urge, and analyzing this urge has taught me some difficult things about myself. For the past several years, there has been nary an event attended or friend’s house visited, where alcohol was not present. I’ve asked myself this: at some point, did I start going places for the chance to do something, to experience something – or did I go there to drink and feel anesthetized? If I’m honest, it was the latter more than I’d like to admit.

I think initially when I started drinking all those years ago, I thought it would augment my sensory perception. It did, sometimes. It prevented me from censoring my emotions. Sometimes I don’t allow myself to get angry, upset, or excited when it may be necessary and healthy. The alcohol strips that repression away. However, it also peels restraint away where you need it. Instead of thoughtfully evaluating actions before they are taken, life becomes ex post facto justification. You don’t learn from mistakes; you adopt them into your behaviors. To do otherwise, would be to admit that you’ve lost control.

Control is a funny thing. You’ll think because you make it to work on time everyday and your bills get paid, you’ve got it. You set the course. I always did. I worked, went to school, and made sure my daughter’s needs were met. But emotionally, I may as well have been the homeless man on the corner asking for a few bucks so he could get his next fix. I suppose some of us wear our inadequacies on the outside. My unseen emotional well-being has been almost totally dependent on artificially-created, temporary pleasure.

It’s not hard to see why that is. Creating some kind of lasting happiness seems out of my reach, as I’m sure that it does for many people. If you don’t already have it, the patience required in waiting or preparing for it is almost impossible to practice. Then again, maybe life is truly so terrible that we all need to self-medicate. Or maybe, it’s bad sometimes – and other times it is incredible. If I’m going to continue the practice of numbing myself, I’ll stay in the middle. I’ll never get to the incredible. And frankly, we should all be offended by each other. Do we really need to drink to tolerate company? Why do we do it? Listen, I’m not downing it. I’m really trying to evaluate the practice. I realize that some people are very aware of what they’re drinking and why; after one or two, they’re done. But in what I’ve observed, that’s not generally the case. Not by a long shot. Why does alcohol accompany almost every instance of human socialization?

I know what I want, more or less. The getting there has always been the problem. In the meantime, I want to go to dinner because of the food and the company, not because of the wine. I want to go to the beach because I love the smell, the breeze, and the sand – not because of a bottomless solo cup full of beer. I want to sit on the porch and talk with my friends because I love them and value what they say – not because we’re killing a bottle of vodka together.

So, that’s what I want and it’s definitely a work in progress. Strangely, I can’t say this decision has been met with overwhelming support. In fact, only just recently have I been asked if something is wrong – because of the choice not to drink. That to me is a real testament of how alcohol-supplemented socialization doesn’t actually promote any kind of valid communication. That question should have been asked long ago.

Complexities

Not so long ago I read a discussion on the “fetishizing” of our culture. Essentially, this is when something very basic is arbitrarily made very complex. Typically when this happens, a whole subset of followers emerge around this fetish and also somewhat arbitrarily appoint themselves as experts on it. The example used in this particular instance was salt. The author was ranting about a store in New York City that sold only variations of salt – different textures, colors, and salts from various geographic locales. The author railed against an article written on this salt purveyor in the New York Times. Here, the NYTimes author waxed eloquent – almost poetic - on the slight gradations in flavor evident in these salts. With respect to those with heightened culinary sensitivity, this sounds like a grandiose display of self-importance. (Hello, I’m a writer for the New York Times. I also have an extraordinarily refined palate. Perhaps you have read my latest expose on all things salty.) The original author agreed with me. His point was essentially – where are we going with all of this? The complexities we’re imbuing on such elemental aspects of life are unnecessary. I agree. However, I see it everywhere and it’s as if some people are jockeying for a predominant position in the race to know, or to seem to know, a lot about very little.

I consider myself somewhat of a quasi-expert on this phenomenon. After completely burning out in a full-time position during law school, I took a part-time gig at a local Starbucks. It looked like fun, and the baristas were always preternaturally happy. Figuring I could use a dose of irrational caffeine-induced enthusiasm, I embarked on what would become a study on the human capacity for being a dick. Perhaps not coincidentally, I no longer drink coffee – so forgive me if I am unsympathetic to all the ways the world worships this wicked brew. I grew to love and respect the customers who came in and unceremoniously ordered their Venti, Bold, no fuss, no frills. But for each of them, there were three who ordered a cup of coffee with ten different specifications. I’m not talking cream and sugar specifications. I’m talking about requiring a certain amount of room left in the cup with exacting specificity, heating soy milk to precisely 160 degrees, pouring the shots of espresso immediately after they were brewed, coating the cup with syrup instead of simply pumping it in the bottom – the list is endless.

This certainly isn’t the only place where this is evident. Not so long ago, I was at a bar with my cousin. He went to the bathroom and asked that I get him a Bud Light. Pretty standard fare. I ordered my drink (a Diet Coke) and the Bud Light. It was as if I asked the barkeep to urinate into a glass. “We don’t serve Bud Light here.” He spit the words “Bud Light” out as if it were blasphemous. My cousin opted for the Yuengling, but clearly the bar man had us pegged for classless swine. It was the kind of place where people put a lot of thought into looking like they don’t put any thought into how they look – just to give you a sense of the place. I sat and analyzed the menu. As expected, they had a diverse selection of beer - and a fairly unappetizing selection of fried foods. (Methinks your palate is selectively refined.) I looked around the room and no one appeared to be swirling their glasses and rolling the beer around the tongue, so as to parse apart the complexity of the flavor. (Ah, this one has a floral nose . . . ) It really looked like your run-of-the-mill bar full of dispossessed brooding young adults. They just happened to be getting shiesse-faced off of a Hefeweizen instead of domestic swill.

Back to the ‘bux - Over time, something started to happen to the way I viewed the most demanding customers. Instead of being frustrating, it started to become sad. Most of them were regulars, and the pieces of who these people were outside of their beverage-bitchiness would slowly come together. The picture was often not very pretty. Everbody’s got this need to feel special, and it seemed like that for some of these people – making hyper-specific demands on their coffee was as much individual attention as they would get all day. For five minutes each day, they were unique.

I suppose creating fetish areas gives people some comfort. Whether its knowledge on some obscure style of music, a salt preference, beer, literature, Star Wars – you name it – everyone needs to feel like they’ve mastered something that isn’t as readily understood by the population at large. I understand the need to feel like you’ve deviated from the norm. But when does trying to be different, or more complex, just make you a jerk? And where's the similar devotion to the beauty in simplicity?

Face Value

My family is defined by strong women. From my 100 year-old great-grandmother to my five year old bossypants, we’ve learned how to adapt and flourish in most any given situation. That said, we are far from perfect. I am fairly convinced that I could solve the nation’s budget crisis and/or avert a global disaster, and they would still look at me and say – “That’s nice, but you look like you’re carrying a little extra weight.” They’ll probably temper that by saying something like, “It’s not a big deal. It’s really only at your hips. Oh, you’ll lose that in no time.” My response to this kind of thing is typically, “Look in the mirror, fatty. It’s your genetics I’m dealing with. Thanks a bunch.” (Ah, we ‘re kidders.) This kind of criticism doesn’t come from a spiteful place, and I’m sure they think this is beneficial to some degree. However, I know the male members of my family never have to endure it, and it is endlessly frustrating that my aesthetic qualities trump all else.

One benefit of the family is that the criticism will be given to you outright. As for female friends, it will likely be discussed at length after you’ve departed. I hate this about women. This mentality creates an unspoken competition between friends that I’ve observed in my own experience and seen through watching other people - mainly my three sisters. You almost can’t avoid being involved, despite the fact that you hate it. (Although, there are some truly base characters out there who thrive on this.) The fascinating, or diabolical, offshoot of this dynamic is the evolution of a market based entirely on female insecurity. The level of intricacy involved in beauty treatments now is overwhelming. You can be sugared, waxed, threaded, plucked, steamed . . . the list is endless and ever-growing. (And often obscenely painful.) Grab any fashion magazine and open to the section on beauty products. If you’re like me, you’ll feel lost. I actually recall reading a short how-to on applying self-tanner and bronzing your fingers – you know, so it blends in with the rest of your body. Every miniscule aspect of the female body is criticized, and a whole industry is capitalizing on this criticism and the behaviors that stem from it. For a hilariously perfect encapsulation of this, I suggest you watch the below:

Not so long ago, I read an interview with Angelina Jolie in which she talked about the time she felt most beautiful in her life. She described being in Africa. She had to shave her head for a film, and so fussing with her hair was of no concern. Her time there was spent with no makeup, clothes worn only because they were comfortable in the heat, and with no one to impress. Perhaps similarly, I remember sitting in the bus on the way home from soccer games in high school - dripping with sweat, hair pulled back haphazardly, dirty, and often a little bruised. (I took great pride in my bigger bruises.) It was such a great feeling. I knew that no one on that bus gave a damn how I looked and I didn’t care that they looked equally as disheveled. That’s probably the last time in my life I felt like that. Now, it’s all smoke and mirrors.

I recently had to give a presentation and this involved getting all prettied up – I even blow-dried my hair. (If your hair is as thick as mine, you can understand why this is such a feat.) I knew this probably wouldn’t happen again for the next two months. If all goes as planned, I’ll walk away from here graduating (with honors, likely) and hopefully in time, a published paper or two. I know I should feel pleased having done this and taken care of my daughter and her various needs. And I will feel pleased. But I’d be lying if I said that the female sniping that will surely come my way when I come back a little worse for the wear as far as my outward appearance goes – won’t diminish that slightly.

I’ve never eavesdropped on a male conversation. If I had to guess what the guys talk about, I would venture to guess it involved sports, hot women, and . . . yeah, I’ve got nothing else there. I can’t imagine one man walking away from a table, while the other parties start talking like, “Hey, is it just me or is he looking a little rough? Like, what’s up with those bags under his eyes? And somebody’s totally been skipping the gym.” Further, I’m pretty sure the discussion of hot girls doesn’t involve “That girl has the best eyebrows I’ve ever seen.” Or, “she looks like she exfoliates.”

I’m not planning to Jolie-out and shave my head anytime soon, but I really need a break from this. Criticize me at your own risk.

Idle Worship

*MTV owns that image. I don't. And frankly, I don't want it. Just wanted you to know what $90K an episode looks like.

The most staggeringly unimportant advice I have ever received came from J-Woww. (You know, from that show. That-Show-Which-Shall-Not-Be-Named.)

1. If you vomit, it is advisable that you do not continue to drink. 2. Nails are best kept trimmed when fights are a frequent occurrence in your social life.

Neither of these tenets is applicable to me, yet I found myself with rapt attention. It wasn’t really what she said. It was the way it was received by the syndicated morning show personalities. It was as if J-Woww had just proclaimed that God revealed the 11th and 12th commandments to her. Naturally, the radio spot was to promote a new book, which I am sure would prove equally as insufferable. But it is a sad commentary on our own laziness and stupidity when we allow this kind of uselessness to be elevated to celebrity status and actually give it the air to breathe and grow.

The other day I heard that “The Situation” was seen test-driving a Ferrari. (As an aside, it is interesting to me that I know who these people are. I don’t even have cable, and yet – they’re unavoidable.) We have scientists spending day after thankless day in a sunless laboratory, working on cures for cancer and new ways to produce energy, and they drive home in a Corolla. Meanwhile, this waste of tanned, freshly-laundered flesh drives a car that exceeds the net worth of my entire neighborhood.

It’s not just us everyday people to blame. I recently noticed that Benjamin Netanyahu was scheduled to meet with Justin Bieber. (I wonder if J-Biebs will also meet with members of the Palestinian Authority. Somehow, I doubt that.) I have nothing against Bieber. In fact, I watched his True Hollywood Story a long while back and actually think he’s a talented kid. But I just don’t get it. Maybe it’s like that Beatles Album with the subliminal messages. Does “Baby” hold the key to Israeli-Palestinian harmony? (Quick! Somebody play it backwards. I hear it says “Leave the West Bank” when you do that.) It seems to me like we’ve got it all wrong. We lampoon and/or make a total mockery of all things serious, most likely from an inability or laziness in trying to understand it. At the same time, we put the dunces at the head of the class.

I watched a documentary on education a few weeks ago (non-stop party over here) and the point was made that American students lag behind in global comparisons of nearly every category, where this was undoubtedly not the case in decades past. The only arena in which American youth utterly devastates the competition is in a measure of their confidence level. No shit. The new American dream is to grow up uneducated, and become a do-nothing mogul with a fragrance, a clothing line, and your own vodka. Or, you could always design handbags a la Paris Hilton. She shows the world her va-jay and puts some rhinestones and a Hello Kitty on a clutch – and we’re ready to give her the cover of Forbes.

Modern pop culture sucks. Look at the trajectory of reality TV. Examining just “The Real World” alone would be sufficient. A show that started with controversy and salient topics has devolved into a house full of vapid, but pretty, people ready to have an orgy the minute they step foot on set. The only thing that really differentiates us from the rest of the animal kingdom is our sentient capability; the ability to form a rational decision after evaluating a range of options. The line between us and the creatures driven by pure carnal instinct is growing pretty thin. Thinking with the head and the heart is overrated. Instant gratification is where it’s at and this requires only that you follow the whims of your genitals. (Oh, this is, however, subject to J-Woww's wise counsel. See above.)

I think we all have the potential to become completely selfish satisfaction-seeking people who operate on very base, carnal desires. But, I also believe every person has the potential to be incredible. The ability that probably lies latent within most of us is enormous. Activating it requires discipline and outright abstaining from certain elements. I wholeheartedly believe that you are what you watch, what you read, and what you listen to. Choose carefully, or you may soon find yourself wearing Ed Hardy and a spray-tan.

Let Them Eat Cake

One of the major driving forces for starting to write, and hence, this blog, seemed to be evaporating here lately. Maybe it’s the stress in my regular non-internet based life. Maybe a life replete with head injuries and minor concussions has finally caught up to me. Maybe politics has finally reached such a level of absurdity that it’s become intolerable. Wait . . what did I just say? Whoa.

Perhaps in my youthful naivete, I believed that one aim of politics, and everything that falls under the umbrella of it, was to actually improve the polity and the lives of all therein. (Excuse me for a minute . . . ) Sorry, I just had to break into a fit of laughter which devolved into a blank stare and a single dramatic, slow-motion tear. This might be one of those necessary and painful rites of passage. I’ve been overwhelmed with what feels a lot like apathy in this regard. This was a new feeling for me. I wasn't really sure how to manage it. I don’t see politics as the process by which competing factions are refined into an equitable or more centrist solution. I see it as the process. Period. A game.

I’m looking at this on two levels: the actors in a lead role (The Executive, and Legislative branches. To a much lesser extent, the judiciary) and the supporting cast (The rest of us.) I think it’s the actions of “the rest of us” that are so troubling. (But I think this plays into the broader problems.) What is clear now is that we are bitterly divided. I’m starting to think this is part of the plan. In a Marie Antoinette fashion, “Let them eat cake.” Or more appropriate for our current economic state and the level of opaqueness surrounding much of what transpires in federal-level politics – let them kill each other for bread crumbs. A more united citizenry could be problematic - for the powers that be.

Today, I was forced to slow down. The past four or five days have been brutally exhausting. I took a couple of hours and watched “Fair Game” courtesy of my local Redbox. This movie is about former CIA agent Valerie Plame Wilson and her husband, Ambassador Joe Wilson. (Not to be confused with “YOU LIE!” Joe Wilson.) That apathy dissipated for a moment. I realize I have had a string of fairly light-hearted posts, and I hate to kill that semi-playful vibe, but allow the opportunity to say that it was a healthy reminder of the Iraq War and how Executive Power can steamroll and mystify us into stupid submission. I felt angry again. Not the overwhelming, uncontrollable anger. The kind of anger that can be put to good use. It felt good to be myself again.

The other day, I indicated on facebook that I was “in.” As in, I would be voting for Barack Obama in 2012. I’d like to formally re -declare my status as “In, with one foot out the door.” (Unfortunately, that option did not exist .) And that option doesn’t exist in reality either. Obama (and whoever runs against him) is set to become the nation’s first billion dollar candidate. So at that bargain price (1/3 the GDP of Zimbabwe, roughly), we Americans can elect a leader who will never have to be subject to the needs of people like you and me, but will assuredly pay lip service to doing so.

So what to do? I plan to start learning a little bit more on if some actual change is really possible. When the dust settles a bit on the homefront, I think I’ll start with reading more thoroughly “A More Perfect Constitution” by Larry Sabato. (Read it years ago, and my recollection is foggy.) I’ve done a little research on public choice theory (legislation as an economic theory) and it seems to me that the only way to curb the self-interested behavior we see with political representatives who are largely funded by major corporations and presumably advance the interests of those groups when in office, is to alter the level of “transaction costs” faced by the players in the game. Essentially, make it harder for them to bullshit us so easily. Also, I believe that voting is important. I’ll be looking into other candidates – even third-party candidates. The two-party system is one hell of a mess. I wonder if it is no longer sustainable. I would genuinely love some feedback or thoughts on this issue.

At the end of “Fair Game”, Joe Wilson (as played by Sean Penn) quotes Benjamin Franklin:

“When Benjamin Franklin left Independence Hall just after the 2nd drafting, he was approached by a woman on the street.

Woman : ‘What manner of government have you bequeathed us?’

Benjamin Franklin : ‘A Republic, madam. If you can keep it.’

The responsibility of a country is not in the hands of a privileged few. We are strong, and we are free from tyranny as long as each one of us remembers his or her duty as a citizen. Whether it’s to report a pothole at the top of your street or lies in a State of the Union address, speak out! Ask those questions. Demand that truth. Democracy is not a free ride. I’m here to tell you. But this is where we live. And if we do our job, this is where our children will live. God bless America.”

The Late Unpleasantness

Nearly every day, I continue to read the Post & Courier online, despite no longer living in Charleston. This morning I was reminded that it is the 150th anniversary of the shots on Fort Sumter. More commonly known as the Civil War; more regionally known as “The Late Unpleasantness.” I’m on the fence about how I feel remembering the Civil War in a near-celebratory way. Students of history would disagree with its theatrical portrayal in "Gone with the Wind" and would replace it with accounts of extreme violence and desperation. That said, this era in history is fascinating. The idea that the nation was once on the verge of an irreparable fracture, and this all started where I once lived is humbling. Charleston has an almost magical quality about it, and I will be forever grateful for having had the chance to live there for several years. Despite this, I’m really very pleased to be a citizen of the United States as opposed to the Confederate States.

I have an abundance of affection for the South. I was born here, and I plan to stay – as circumstances will allow. Now, I am the first to criticize some of the more absurd events that have a distinctly Southern flair. For instance, not so long ago in South Carolina, the state legislature passed a bill making cock fighting a felony. I mean, thank God for that. I was really losing sleep over the fate of Palmetto State poultry. At the same time, the legislature failed to make a repeat domestic violence offense a felony. (I hear “Dixie” start to play in my head, even as I’m typing this.) Then there are our lifestyle choices. This past weekend, I begrudgingly took my daughter to Chik-fil-A. (Vegetarian options here: Waffle Fries and an Ice Dream cup.) Next door was a Lindy’s Chicken joint that looks like it could either be one of those roadside gems with a questionable exterior and culinary ecstacy inside; or, it could just be a greasy dump where the mac n’ cheese serves a dual function as napalm. An ambulance pulls in between the two chicken establishments. I felt like singing “Song of the South” as a salute. God love us. Death by chicken. If you’re doing to die, do so deliciously. Hallelujah and Amen.

Here’s the thing: I’m allowed to criticize. Were you born above the Mason-Dixon, I’d suggest you don’t. Most of us are aware of the skeletons in the closet. You don’t have to remind us. But this isn’t stopping people. Not too long ago, I read a story in the P&C about something South Carolina was doing wrong. (Take your pick.) Long ago, I swore off reading the comments here because it’s like biting down on a cold sore, just to see how much pain you can handle. But nonetheless, I found myself perusing this unflattering snapshot of humanity. One comment just set me on fire. Commenter – let’s call her Snooki – said something to the effect of “Hey, I’m from New Jersey, where we obviously have it all figured out. Even so, I moved here so I could complain about you. Too bad these dumb Southern bubbas can’t seek out our Northern wisdom so that your state could also be one big petrochemical refinery and hair gel mecca.” (that’s a loose recollection of what Snooki said.) First of all, I have nothing against New Jersey. In fact, I quite like it. But what is it that you have to teach us, you ol’ carpetbagger? Last time I checked, you have rednecks up yonder too. That’s right. I’ve stopped at a gas station in the middle of the night in rural Pennsylvania. It made “Deliverance” look like a Sandals Resort vacation.

Here’s a recent message I received from a friend (Bostonian) on how I was misinterpreting something. He chalked it up to “regional differences,” and explained it thusly:

Example: someone is late to work and if they don't tighten the f--- up they're going to get fired.

Southern English:"Now Tammy darling we really need you to come in on time ok? It really just doesn't look good for us and you're such a valuable member of the team that we all need your happy face sitting at the front desk at nine am on the dot ok sweet heart? I love your blouse by the way you look lovely, oh my god, and is that a new hair do? Well Tammy, thank you and please just try to be here tomorrow on time sweetie pie, ok? We just don't know what we could do without you."

Tammy doesn't show up on time and then is shocked she is fired.

Northern English:"Tammy, if you do not arrive tomorrow and every subsequent day on time at nine am you will be terminated. Thank you and have a nice day."

Absolutely true. But, the thing is – this is what I love about the South. While the predominant theme of human relations becomes a cold, sanitized, calculated method of interacting, with an emphasis on efficiency and infrequency – by and large – we still resort to pleasantries. Sure, go ahead and question the sincerity. But a spoonful of sugar always did help the medicine go down easier. We’re essentially saying the same thing, but we do it with a comfortable sweetness. Where your day-to-day workings take on a wholly utilitarian purpose, we like to find the beauty in life. While far from perfect, I appreciate the South’s adherence to unnecessary niceties. If you disagree and insist on convincing me otherwise, expect a more current unpleasantness.

Selling Out

One particularly poignant moment for me earlier this semester came as I was driving past the area in which most of the University’s Greek institutions are located. Like many colleges, these fraternities and sororities find themselves best expressed through garish murals painted along the roadside. I can’t help but notice them on my morning trips to my daughter’s school. The car is virtually the only place I can contemplate with relative ease. It’s no secret I spend most of my days stressed beyond reason. As I’m watching my chosen career field evaporate, leaving a desolate landscape in its absence, the burden of having to get a job that will allow for growth, that will help pay off my sizeable loans, and that will not make me want to kill myself daily is a heavy one to bear. (It seems that two out of those three is all that one can expect.) So, this particular morning was like every other – I’m driving – thinking about the possibilities, scheming, and fluctuating between self-assuredness and panic – when I see one of the latest additions to the Greek art repertoire. “No time to Siesta. It’s time to Fiesta!” Honestly, I think there were at least three exclamation points. I can’t recall. (Incidentally, this is my least favorite punctuation choice. Horribly abused.) I laughed, then I felt the urge to cry. Which I did not do, because I also typically put makeup on in the car and that would just be counterproductive.

(*As an aside, I do want to point out that this LL.M. was a good choice for me. In case anyone was about to experience a little schadenfreude at this statement. It is the choice to attend law school entirely that I sometimes lament, not the choice to continue further down the path.) Anyway . . .

You know, where did I go wrong in life? This was the thought that struck me. Why have I chosen this rigorous and soul-crushing path? I want my greatest concern to be what color to use on the mural for Casino Night. I want to stress out over what to wear to a formal. I want the most emotionally draining part of my week to be a fight with one of my best girlfriends that is rectified with tears, hugs, ice cream, and episodes of the Real Housewives. Yeah, yeah. I’m stereotyping. But you know, I’m not a terrible looking girl. Perhaps, I should’ve focused on my physical assets and gotten an MRS.

Law school, God bless it – is the place where undergraduate institutions send their biggest assholes. (As an LL.M. now, I can say I’m not privy to a lot of the typical pettiness – but it is true nonetheless.) And this extends, by and large, into the actual practice of law as well. I cannot imagine another professional field in which people actually take great pleasure in tearing each other down. To me, this extends from a deep dislike for oneself, but I’ll spare you the Freud speak. I am friends with one lawyer on facebook who consistently posts stories related to the decline of the legal profession. The general tone of his posts, to me, says: “I am employed and I hate it. You are thinking about law school, and you shouldn’t. (This is probably true, with some exceptions.) You are in law school, and you are hopelessly screwed. Ruining your day makes mine better.” I have always believed that a genuine desire coupled with a more specified plan of attack will produce desired results. But the drumbeat of bad news just doesn’t seem to have an end.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about an alternate strategy. It started off as a joke, but now I wonder – if presented with the opportunity – I might really go for it. Perhaps I should market myself, not as an attorney, but as a . . . uh, a domestic companion. Not really a housewife, because we don’t actually have to be married. But something along those lines. Do you want to discuss electric deregulation while I make omelettes? That can be arranged. How about I redecorate the living room, and then we can sit and talk about international energy subsidies? Imagine long walks on the beach discussing hurdles to renewable energy. Need a little help keeping the place tidy? No problem. A little reparteé on the public trust doctrine makes any household task more pleasurable. Your part of the bargain: pay off my loans and allow me the possibility of doing something meaningful with my life without fear of financial collapse. Either way, looks like I’m going to have to sell my soul, and after what she’s been through, it’s going at a bargain rate.

You're an Xbox, and I'm More Atari

*I don't own this image. I tried to find out who did and I cannot. If you do, please don't sue me. If you'll keep reading, you'll understand that this would be futile anyway.

I have come to two somewhat painful conclusions in the past few years: 1) The competitive and clique-prone nature of high school never ends. In fact, it gets worse. 2) I am so lame. Definitely not sitting at the popular table of life right at the moment. Now, I had a fairly pleasant high school experience. For that, I am grateful. But my post-high school life hasn’t been so easy.

One of the ways this dynamic comes into play is in the accumulation of stuff. Lately, I’m noticing this in terms of electronics, cars, and car accessories. I am sensitive to it right now because all of my e-necessities have suddenly become borderline mutinous. My laptop shuts off the minute it is unplugged. And it heats up to a threatening level. Not so long ago, I had an ear infection and I would just lay my head down on the computer because I didn’t have a heating pad, and this baby was cookin'. I’ve got a seminar paper to finish and a thesis to write. This laptop MUST hold out. (In case anyone is curious, the seminar paper is on Electric Transmission Cost Allocation and its importance in connecting renewable generated power, and the thesis is on offshore hydrokinetic energy. Party.) Further, my daughter has decorated the cover with stickers – a butterfly and Dora the Explorer – and I cannot fully remove them. Then there’s my phone. Oh, my phone. Sometimes it just shuts off. For no reason. But, it comes right back on! It just . . . shuts off. At random. So, there’s that. And it’s old. When I got it back in the Pleistocene Era, I was completely stoked because it had – (wait for it) a FULL Qwerty keypad. I could flip it open and text with great speed and accurate punctuation. Now, I have to contend with you people and your smart phones. NO, you smug yuppie. I DO NOT play Angry Birds or Words with Friends. I don’t even know what that is.

Then, there’s my sweet ride. I can’t complain, and I won’t complain about her because I have this paranoid fear that if I do, she will quit on me. Sometimes I pat her once regal dashboard and tell her she’s doing a great job. Ok, old girl – I’m not particularly happy about you heating up to just below the red portion on my temperature gauge when we’re in stop-and-go traffic, but you’re running! And for me, that has always been enough. Sometimes I expect to receive a letter from the University of Virginia, politely requesting that I remove my rear window sticker because I am bad PR. Besides the anxious growl she produces at red lights, there are the windshield wipers. Throughout our automotive relationship, those wipers have had periods during which they will spontaneously turn on. This is particularly embarrassing on sunny days, when I’m stopped. I feel like the occupants of the car next to me will look over and wonder if I’ve taken total leave of my senses. So, if I feel someone’s aware – I just push the wiper fluid button as if I am simply overzealous about a clean windshield.

I try to continually express gratitude that I have these things, although they are about as cool as wearing dental headgear in 9th grade. Truth is, for the moment, I have what I need in order to fulfill my current responsibilities. It’s not comfortable, or glamorous, but for now it will suffice. Besides, e-consumerism is completely out of hand. Admittedly, to a degree this provides some comfort in coping with my material inadequacy. But let’s be real people – these electronics – well, they own your ass.

Ever wanted to throw a brick through a Verizon store like a maniac because your expensive phone has malfunctioned yet again? Well, that’s because electronic companies have implemented policies of planned obsolescence. Your stuff, by and large, is made to wuss out by the time the company has augmented the technology enough to produce an I-(whatever) 4, et seq. Then, there’s the problem of e-waste. (I swear I'm not making this stuff up.) Electronics have some nasty metals inside. Sure, you can recycle them. But many of the companies that say they’re recycling them are often shipping them to this tiny Chinese town where they are picked apart by hand for spare change. This town has probably the highest percentage of cancer in the world. Guiyu, China. (Seriously, look it up.)

So, just like some offbeat but cool kid in high school that inspires the popular crowd to start sporting retrowear, knock-off Ray-bans, and Chuck Taylors, I’m bringing (un) sexy back, when it comes to my toys. Broke is the new black. You heard it here first, y'all.

Your Quinoa is $6.98. My Contempt is Free of Charge.

I recently read that 2/3 of what Whole Foods Market sells is not certified organic, but is tainted with genetically-modified matter and grown using chemically intensive processes. Despite this, it is marketed as “natural.” Personally, I’m not ready to grab the pitchfork and torch. Yeah, I make an effort to buy organic. But sometimes, it’s absurd. For instance, the other day I had to opt for the conventional zucchini because the organic was $3.99. Not a pound – EACH. At the risk of sprouting a malforming Miracle-Gro induced tumor, I’d prefer to not go broke. Someday, maybe I can afford to align my life with my principles. But I doubt it.

That said, I do wholeheartedly believe that organics are preferable. No, I’m not buying into some fad here. Shockingly, food is better for you when it isn’t doused in chemicals at regular intervals and intermingled with genetically-modified matter, the impacts of which, the world is yet to fully realize. But enough about that. I have become an anthropologist of sorts, when it comes observing the natural food store employee in their native habitat. Perhaps you have also encountered this species. It’s most marked characteristic is its thinly-disguised judgment.

Now, to be fair, not every employee of Whole Foods/EarthFare/Your Local Bastion of Self-Righteousness appears to have just eaten a turd sandwich. Some of these folks actually practice what they represent and exude an aura of health and wellness. Others, well. Their dreadlocks prevent them from working anywhere else besides a record store (and the Ipod has done away with that for the most part) or organizing the next chair-through-the-Starbucks-window anti-globalization rally. They’ve settled for a job that provides a space for smoking their Natural Spirits and scowling, and where facial hair may be grown in a completely unregulated fashion.

Some time ago when I had a day job and was forced to wear something other than jeans and a t-shirt everyday, I would open my wallet and remove its contents at my local Whole Foods. (By that I mean, I ate lunch there.) This provided ample time for observation and some degree of interaction with the subject of my informal research. My conclusion was that I could buy all the wheatgrass and free-trade yerba mate in the world, but I was never getting any anti-establishment street cred with a head full of highlighted hair and heels. A shame. If we sat down to chat, we’d probably get along fairly well. Such is life in many instances, I suppose.

Perhaps nowhere in the world is this not-so-rare bird more populous than in Asheville, North Carolina. And they aren't relegated solely to hocking acai berry cleanses. When Asheville got an Urban Outfitters, I fully expected the streets to erupt in protest. “F--- you, corporate a-holes! We invented dumpster chic. And f--- that Mary-Kate Olsen too. Poseurs.” (As an aside, Urban is actually one of my favorite stores. Not all of it looks as if it were refused on sight at the Goodwill Donation center.) I remember one visit to Asheville with my sister. We hit several thrift stores downtown, and left with some great cheap finds. However, this otherwise enjoyable day was interspersed with some serious eye-daggers. In a few stores, we walked in and no one even spoke to us. Uh, awkward. When it’s just you and a latently venomous storekeep in a tiny space and no one is talking, it makes for some uncomfortable tension.

I worked in Asheville for a summer during a particularly low point in my life and it turned out to be exactly what I needed. After some initial awkwardness, the quintessential Ashevillians realized I was just as subversive, if not more so, than they were. We got along fantastically and I met some of the most interesting and hilarious people I’ve met thus far in my life.

Anyway, I hope it’s clear here that I don’t have an ill-will towards these tofu-peddlers. I certainly don’t. Probably just the opposite. But we’re all passing judgment on someone out of sheer misunderstanding, or fear of/laziness towards searching out some commonality. My challenge to myself this week, and to you if you feel so inclined, is to catch yourself passing that judgment. And then maybe, just stop.

Bo As Metaphor

A dear friend of mine recently moved to our nation’s capital; or as I like to call it, the place where civility and efficiency go to die. He was sharing stories about people he had met, which NPR anchor was actually a complete ass, and how the world of Congressional staff was like law school on a meth and Mountain Dew diet. I laughed when he told me that a friend of his had, at some point, been walking the Obama’s dog, Bo. Imagining a bright young graduate of one of America’s best universities as Executive Dog-Walker seems like an appropriate depiction of the recession. We spun off into a small tangential discussion of the dog, and then it kind of struck me that this canine is a pretty apt metaphor for the Obama Presidency thus far.

President Obama, as you might recall, arrived in office to the sound of cheering throngs of Americans convinced he really had the audacity to instill hope. I was among that hopeful crowd. The inauguration made me tearfully proud to be American. I’d say I’m still hopeful – but what was once a fire is now a flicker. Anyway, when the Obamas announced they wanted a dog, they were encouraged to adopt a shelter animal. Any good liberal knows that the poor, tired, huddled masses yearning to breathe free applies to our animal friends as well, right? For a while, it seemed they would actually do this. What a symbolic move this may have been. The leader of the free world - a man with unparalleled power – would choose to lift up one downtrodden canine soul. Maybe a mutt wouldn’t be fashionable, but it was the right thing to do. Enter Ted Kennedy. In one fell swoop, some hapless pup’s dream of eating Filet Mignon on the South Lawn were dashed by the doggy equivalent of a Hermes Birkin bag. The audacity.

Senator Kennedy (may he rest in peace) is often viewed as a true liberal’s liberal. But for all his pros, one aspect of his political past really burns my biscuits. Cape Wind. Disgust. Just to say it out loud sends a shiver of hypocrisy down my spine. As a former member of the Alliance to Protect Nantucket Sound, he (and other politicians including Mitt Romney and John Kerry) favored sustainable energy and reducing our crippling dependence on coal and petroleum. Sure, sounds great! But not this wind farm, because HELLO – obviously, you are supposed to put that kind of thing near poor people. Stated succinctly, the project enjoyed support from the citizens of Massachusetts and many citizens of Cape Cod. But – GASP! - you simply cannot build in view of the Kennedy Compound. Self-serving politics at its unjustifiable worst.

"It’s politics, stupid." I find myself slightly altering George Stephanopoulos’ famous quote on the economy (emphasis on the stupid) when I wonder how my once audacious President became Neville Chamberlain to John Boehner’s Hitler. (I’m sorry. Even now, this feels like blasphemy. But alas . . . ) In the Washington Post today, Ezra Klein asks “What happened to the fierce urgency of now?” and “Where is President Obama?” Well, I guess he’s busy making difficult concessions. Stated differently, he’s forgoing the shelter mutt for the more politically palatable Portuguese Water Dog.

This brings me to me. Or, us. The young and idealistic set. Man, we talk a good talk, don’t we? But often our own actions don’t square with the rhetoric. I used to decry the heinous environmental impacts of factory farms, but I still ate some of what they were producing. Finally, I came to the conclusion that if this is something I really disdain, then I should stop eating meat and start supporting my local farmers to the greatest extent possible. So I did. And the burden of my own hypocrisy lifting felt pretty good, I must say. As the government faces shut down, we all know we can’t count on them to make the needed changes. Instead of solely arguing on the merits of cutting social welfare programs, volunteer in your local homeless shelter. Go to city council meetings. Work to fix this problem at home. Do something about it. Then argue. If you’re working for change, then argue to your heart’s content. Don’t just know enough to sounds smart casually debating with a friend over coffee, find something that drives you, delve into the problem, and find some way to make yourself useful.

I still have faith in our President. When he is on his game, he is remarkable. I know the “fierce urgency of now” is there, somewhere underneath all the politics-as-usual and metaphorical gifting of designer dogs. But until that’s found, it can’t be denied that our government is failing us; from the left and the right. So, take your old copy of “The Audacity of Hope” and tape your picture to the cover. Until Congress collectively pulls its head from the proverbial ass, we are all we’ve got. Team Shelter Dog.

Spawn

In college, I worked in a radio station (among other places) for a short time as a morning news anchor. After I graduated, I started to ponder on the next chapter in my illustrious career as an Italian restaurant server-cum-poor (impoverished) man’s Lakshmi Sing. The morning DJ (“Acoustic Sunrise,” y’all. Word.) suggested I read “The Artist’s Way” by Julia Cameron. A fantastic suggestion, and I make the same recommendation to you. Ms. Cameron believes that all inspiration flows from God. Or, if you prefer; a higher power. We humans are a mere conduit for this inspiration, and if we would make ourselves receptive to this inspiration in various ways, the inspiration will flow freely. One of the steps in her program of tuning out the noise (calming your monkey mind, for you yogis), was to refrain from media for a proscribed period of time. No television. No e-mail. No news. Her approach is best. And it works – not just for art – but life generally. (Religion would call this attuning yourself to the Holy Spirit.) But for me, right now – I’ve chosen to be incensed. It’s not the way of the righteous, but for this moment – it’s what turns me to this blank page.

My chosen incendiary device is a certain website, which I won’t disclose for now. But it encapsulates everything I despise about the state of the young, modern left. I can usually just sign on to the first page and – BAM. I’m pissed. In this vein, I’ve been thinking more about my focus here. Those who know me, know that politics – despite my attempts to leave it be – really gets me going. To use an analogy I’m stealing from a family member: Politics to me is like an attractive, but psycho girlfriend/boyfriend. You think you need to get away because it’s making you crazy. But it’s just so alluring, you keep coming back for more.

Let me digress from this website for a moment. When I started college, the first extracurricular group I joined was the College Republicans. I came to meetings, listened to speeches, went to rallies, etc. I remember sitting through one speech watching this 19 year-old get all red in the face, and decided – you know, I think we’re good here. Then, I quietly slipped out the side door. None of it resonated with me. I spent my first three years or so of college fairly politically dispossessed. Then, while sitting in a class on Political and Social Thought, things changed. Some remember the day they came to Jesus.* I remember the day I found out I was a liberal. (When you read this, I hope you’ll say that word in your head like Dr. Evil does in Austin Powers. “LEE-berr-all. MUAHAHAHA!” Add some thunder claps for dramatic effect.) So, we’re discussing the philosophical underpinnings for supply-side economics. Discussion ensues. Then, we look at some statistics. Since the advent of this economic policy under Nixon, the graph showed a larger segment of the population was wealthy (arguably good?), a larger segment was considered poor (undeniably bad), and the middle class was markedly smaller. It hit me: I’ve been wrong. This idea, no matter how lovely it sounds as a philosophy, is clearly not working in practice. Goodbye red, hello blue. . .ish (*an aside, I am not dismissing someone’s religious experience here. I just see a person’s relationship with God as a lifelong process, not a specific moment in time.)

Ok, back to now. I do think, from many perspectives, that this liberal ideology is more correct. However, I also think it’s under attack; not by Fox – but from within. And it’s coming from the more youthful adherents. Here’s where the website comes in. Today, within minutes of viewing it, I read a paragraph wherein someone’s children are referred to as “spawn.” Such eloquence have we. (Just accept for a moment that this website’s followers are vastly liberals, ok? Cool.) This to me is a really troubling trend: a tendency for these so-called educated, elite, free-thinkers to debase anything related to more commonplace notions of family. Maybe this is a backlash from having the Right force feed their version of family values, but it’s no excuse.

I just had a facebook-based argument with various individuals on children in the workplace. One of the more abrasive comments was from a female. Essentially she said, hey selfish parents – don’t bring your “spawn” to work for any reason. (I’m paraphrasing) And the icing on her poo-cake of a comment: “You should have thought about this before popping them out.” Then the usual suspects made their appearance: I have a right to choose not to have children. I have a right to choose to not be exposed to them. I have a right to work free from their interference. I am woman, hear me roar. And of course – “Well, some people are just not ‘baby people.’”

First of all, I had to breathe hard to stem the deluge of vitriol that struggled to fly from my fingertips onto the thread. Ladies and gentlemen, here’s feminism shooting itself in the foot. Your rights to not become a jumper-clad mommy type with a “NObama” sticker on her mini-van are getting in the way of my right to pursue my profession and be a mother who occasionally brings her very well-behaved child into the office when the need arises. Your “me” rights are potentially interfering with the rights of a broader concept of “us” in a potentially dangerous way here, sister.

This post is already lengthy, so I’ll wrap this up. Matters of family, children, and reproduction are explosive issues politically. The version of the Right that so dominates the media often implicitly (sometimes explicitly) portrays the liberal viewpoint as amoral and with an agenda that would attack and erode the primacy of the family unit. Meanwhile, this is also the ideology supporting unprecedented cuts to social programs like WIC (nutrition program for women, infants, and children) and Head Start, among other things. I realize my generation is marrying later, or not at all – and sometimes eschewing children. But let’s not make our preferences the argument. This isn’t just about us.

A Brief Missive on Modern Courtship Rituals

Sometimes I have to admit that part of my criticism for the present comes from some kind of nostalgia for a past I never even experienced and may have never even existed. I grew up reading American Girl books. My favorite was Molly, the bespectacled, pig-tailed, and ever-resourceful young lady enduring World War II on the home front. In my pre-teen mind, I would also grow to inherit a world filled with dashingly handsome brave men who asked you out on proper dates. They would arrive on time, chat with the folks, perhaps even bring a modest offering of flowers. In turn, I would one day be the perfectly coiffed demure lady in white gloves and red lipstick. My visions were a lot like “Mad Men,” with a gloss of sexual equality.

Cue the disappointment. Instead, the classic quandary: Does life imitate art, or is art imitating life? Please interpret art loosely, because by this I mean Judd Apatow movies. Don’t get me wrong. Any director that will consistently cast Paul Rudd can’t be all bad. But, every movie he does is one big fat ridiculous celebration of male mediocrity. Because every little girl’s dream might have involved some kind of prince, but realistically – it should’ve been an overweight, video-gaming, unshaven, pornhound with questionable hygiene. And in Apatow’s world, this douchebag with a heart-of-gold always gets his Katherine Heigl.

Is this the new normal? From my daily facebook perusals, it certainly looks that way. Por ejemplo, I enjoy (some) sports. Although, I’m not big on talking about it. (I think it always seems insincere, like I’m just showing off.) But I see all these women on facebook getting into HEATED sports discussions. I mean, the (white) gloves are definitely off. But it seems so contrived. Like “Hey look at me! I like sports! And I like them enough to make my profile picture that image from Calvin & Hobbes where he’s peeing on (insert sports team)’s logo. Tee hee!” So, it’s come to this? We’re not just settling for Seth Rogen’s character in “Knocked Up,” we’re actually wooing him. And how many people do you know who spend “dates” with their significant other just watching TV? Listen, a relationship can’t be built on episodes of NCIS and old Highlander re-runs. (I’m serious. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work.)

Someone needs to write that Pina Colada song circa 2011. “If you like playing Halo - and sitting on my couch . . .”

A Meandering Introduction

Blogging. I once heard it described as the internet equivalent of smelling your own farts. From some of the blogs I’ve read – I have to agree. Sometimes it feels like the world is pondering the question: “If something happens in your life, and you don’t post it to facebook or blog about it, does it even matter?” Kind of like the old tree-falling-in-the-forest with no one around adage. Despite the fact that writing this may be a testament to narcissism, I’m going to nonetheless.

Why? I’m not entirely sure. Partly, because engaging in some meaningful discussion within the allotted words per comment strictures on facebook is growing old, and frankly – it’s depressing. I can appreciate facebook, however. It’s good to see conversations taking place with multiple participants where this would be impossible otherwise. And you can’t deny the role of social media to incite incredible change. Egypt, and other Middle Eastern uprisings are evidence of that. But, the minutiae of facebook can drive a person quickly insane. My method of dealing with inane musings is with sarcasm, or the new face of sarcasm among the young adults: snark. It’s like sarcasm with a real mean-streak. I am not proud of this, and it's gotten completely out of hand. Which brings me to the second reason for doing this: my growing disappointment with my generation. I dislike sweeping generalizations, and I do try to avoid them. But we’ve earned our reputation as the generation of “me!" All around, I see examples of people entrenching themselves in what they think they know best – themselves. But, this devotion to individuality is deceiving. How much of this uniqueness is actually just modeled after norms perpetuated through media and good old-fashioned peer-pressure? I see this, based on my experience, in the name of being open-minded and liberal and it’s anything but. If you’re not conforming to the latest non-conformity, then you’re obviously intolerant. Oh, how I loathe this mindset. The ability to have a civil discourse has vanished and been replaced by using “The Daily Show” quips as actual arguments. As much as I adore Jon Stewart (I mean, seriously – adore. I’d marry him were he single and willing), you can’t out-argue someone by simply linking a YouTube clip from the last episode to a facebook thread. The argument is: I’m right and you are obviously a cretinous moron. I’ve evolved, you haven’t. My choice in television viewing confirms this fact.

Politics, or any argument, can’t be won by condescension. And my generation – we’re giving it all we’ve got in trying to do just that. I have undoubtedly been guilty of this myself. (Calling Mike Huckabee “Hickabee” immediately springs to mind. Sorry, Mike. Not that you’ll ever read this.) Recognizing the problem is the first step to overcoming it. Let’s back up – what do I mean by “my generation”? I don’t know, precisely. I’m 28. So that’s definitely included. I want to say the 25 to 34 bracket, but it’s expanding in both directions. This is going to be an evolving definition. I’m thinking generally unmarried, urban/suburban, college-graduates, who spent at least some of their youth watching “South Park.” (I realize this definition sucks. Give it time to grow, mmmkay?) I mention “South Park” because on that show NOTHING is sacred, which ultimately leads me to believe that Trey Parker and Matt Stone put their faith in a similar kind of nothingness and devotees of the show do so to some extent as well. Where nothing is sacred and we just laugh at it, a generation of nihilists is blossoming. And when “In Nothing We Trust,” we’re arguing for the sake of arguing. And holy shit, is it exhausting.

What to expect from this? I don’t know. A few caveats: I will likely contradict myself. I will not be overly concerned with grammar and punctuation – so just save it. I will not attempt to carefully craft my arguments. I do this day-in and day-out in my regular non-internet based life, and I won’t do it here because I can. Whenever something strikes me as relevant, I’ll post it here. I might write a few words. I might not. I might deviate from my stated focus. (If you can call it a focus.) Who knows. Work in progress.

As for a little about me, which may explain some of the awareness of this (or not): I’m a single-parent. (to an absolute gem of a child who restores my tattered faith in humanity daily.) A divorcee. A graduate student. (Post-grad grad student. I do not recommend it.) A budding environmentalist, a vegetarian flirting with being vegan. I’m called a liberal, and I refer to myself that way sometimes, although I’m not entirely sure what this means. I have attended school with some of the most privileged among us, but I was raised in a tiny town built around a paper mill in North Carolina. On top of this, I just started attending church again. Not just any church, but The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Commonly referred to as the “Mormon” church. (It's a lifestyle, not a weekly church date.) Apparently, it’s about 75% Republican, statistically. But I am enjoying it quite a bit. This has been the reawakening in my life that “I” don’t come first. Perhaps there is something bigger than all of us that supersedes our duty to ourselves and illuminates the duty we have to each other. Again, a work in progress. But what does this all mean? It means that I don’t “fit.” Or, at least I don’t feel that way. Most of us probably feel that way to some extent. So why are we arguing like it’s all black and white? It’s the old US v. THEM mentality and I think my peers and I are perpetuating it, and solidifying it in a dangerous, and disturbing way.

So, that was long. Thanks for reading if you stuck with me. I’m just hoping to learn something here and maybe have some kind of catharsis. We shall see.