Accidental Historian

Weird Summer's Comin' On, Yes it's Comin' On

Things I'm looking forward to, summer 2012 edition:

Redshirts, Scalzi's new one that looks like it's back to his style for The Android's Dream, a/k/a Christopher Moore decides to try his hand at true sci-fi.

Caliban's War, by James S.A. Corey, the follow-up to Leviathan's Wake, which was total awesome sauce.  If you like Arthur C. Clarke-style high concept sci-fi mixed mil sf, a monster story, and a detective noir-style personal journey, Leviathan's Wake is totally your thing.  If you don't want that, I don't want to be friends with you.  Anyway, yeah, Caliban's War, looking forward to it.

Blackout, by Mira Grant.  I can't tell you how much I loved Feed and Deadline.  I've talked about them before, though.  Anyway, Deadline ended on one hell of a cliffhanger.  Wait, no, two hells of a cliffhanger.  Three, maybe, if you count the overall story behind the two cliffhangers.[1]

Meanwhile, between now and then, there's a prequel-ish short story to Leviathan Wakes and a prequel novella to Feed. I'm actually planning on re-reading the books during the month of May, too, which is pretty unprecedented for me.[2]

Also, too, there's new Lost Immigrants on the way.  And the new Scott Lucas & the Married Men stuff is set for June 5.

RCPM are doing their Wisconsin swing at the end of June.  That means Madison, Milwaukee, New Glaurus beer, and Fuzzy's Tacos for this guy.  Hell, yeah.

Oh, and did I mention I bought a house?  I'm hoping it will be move-in ready in three weeks.  So that'll be nice.  The stuff I thought would take a long time is way ahead of schedule.  The stuff I didn't realize was a problem, though, is going to delay things just a bit.

Oy vey.

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[1]I'm still a not-fan of the whole zombie apocalypse thing.  I enjoyed Zombieland and Shaun of the Dead because they were hilarious.  As for the main trope, meh.  But I still can't get enough of Mira Grant's stuff.  I also strongly recommend Colson Whitehead's Zone One.  Both are post-zombie apocalypse and both use the idea in the standard sci-fi "meditation on life as we know it in a very different world" concept.  Grant goes for a systemic look at how we build society and disseminate information.  Whitehead uses a stream-of-consciousness approach and uses the zombie apocalypse as a metaphor for how we create walls around ourselves and settle for mediocrity.  Whitehead actually gets really low marks on Goodreads, but the stuff he gets marked down for is exactly the stuff that I think he does really well: it's a more-or-less emotionless, stream-of-consciousness meditation on life as we know it set in a zombie apocalypse.  If you want Left 4 Dead, this isn't for you.  If you want something with substance and a totally immersive setting, this is an amazing book, especially since there's one totally crazy reveal at the end that doesn't mean much in the grand scheme of the book but is a kind of, "Holy shit," moment that wouldn't exist if the book was written any other way.

[2]I think we're hitting a critical mass for books in the same way we hit a critical mass for music about five to ten years ago.  The eBook platform is allowing authors to release a lot of interesting background material in the form of short stories and novellas directly to people who can then get it immediately and without, say, having to find it in a random copy of a magazine somewhere.  That, plus the ability to self-publish and actually get the material out to a wide audience, is going to rock the publishing industry in the same way that the internet, mp3 players, and iTunes/Amazon have brought the traditional recording industry to its knees.  Long-term I think it will be good.  Short-term it's going to hurt a lot of people but bring success to a lot of people who were otherwise kept out of the game.

Have Some Links

Ross Douthat, a/k/a "Ross Douchehat" 'round about the parts I frequent, wrote a book about religion in America.  I knew it would be terrible because, y'know, Ross Douthat.  He's a mendacious, obviously partisan intellectual lightweight to which the Grey Lady has tied itself in an ever-accelerating attempt to drag itself down towards obscurity.  I'd weep for what the NYT has become but, well, you make your bed...

Either way, Charles P. Pierce read it so that you (and I) don't have to:

Too much of the book is simply a culture-war text gussied up in a chasuble. Douthat is extremely bothered by people who claim to seek enlightenment from a "God Within," and outside the framework of preferred ecclesiastical constructs. (In this, he risibly cites Deepak Chopra and Elizabeth Gilbert — and Oprah Winfrey! — as somehow being American religious figures.) Can you find spiritual enlightenment outside of a formalized religious structure and, having found it, can you still be a Catholic, or a Jew, or a Presbyterian? An interesting question that Douthat simply ignores.

Jezebel takes a shit all over EHarmony.  Statistics compiled by OKCupid indicate there's an 83% chance somebody reading this is totally in to that sort of thing:

The "scientific" algorithm behind eharmony, for example, has never been tested against other algorithms to measure whether or not it makes any difference in the quality of relationships experienced by users. Basically, you might be better off just going to a bar and introducing yourself to a bunch of dudes who don't appear to have girlfriends. Or just playing World of Warcraft for awhile. Or just go onto OKCupid and find someone with a weird tattoo, for free.

I find this story fascinating, especially in light of the fact that I spent the better part of the day on Friday in a home that had been vacant for nearly a year. I also had to meet the new neighbors in a rather awkward way. The driveway in the empty house was the communal extra parking space, you see.

Interestingly enough, no one seemed to even think to point a gun at me. I also never had to show anyone my closing documents. I wonder why that is.  I've already learned some interesting things about being the new guy in a neighborhood and the difference between getting an apartment and buying a house.  Let's just say that I feel really, really bad for the Kalonjis and leave it at that for now.

And, finally, the Mittbot might have the nomination basically wrapped up, but he has a long hill to climb with the Republican base.

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Also, as a reminder, I'm doing a Walkathon on May 6th for the daggies and the kittehs.  I've been a bit busy lately, so I haven't exactly been working my ass off at fundraising.  Here's a link:

http://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/Geds/adopt-19th-annual-makinstridesforstrays-walkathon

I can apply for matching funds up to $200 through my company.  That means that anything you give will (potentially) be doubled!  Unless, of course, you give something that goes to dollar 201 or beyond, but as of right now that's not looking like it will be too big a problem.

Achievement Unlocked: Home Ownership

It took nearly a year.  There’s still at least three weeks of work to do before I can move in. I'm sure there are many, many stories to tell and there will be many, many more.

But, hey, I’m a 30 year-old, white, land owning male.  I get to vote even if they repeal the 19th and 15th Amendments.

So suck on that, everybody!

Totally Not a Filler Post

So, since I managed to write two whole posts over the weekend when I was planning on writing a bunch, then decided one of those posts was utter shite, here’s some filler that will hopefully create an open thread of some sort:

Riffing off this post at Scalzi’s soon to be late, lamented FilmCritic.com column, imagine you find yourself in this scenario: aliens appear and tell you that they’re going to destroy the Earth.  But they won’t if you can prove the Earth deserves to exist.  Your only chance is to play five albums from your collection.  And these are actual albums, not live shows, not greatest hits albums, and not Time Life Shallow Exploitation of Your Memories of that One Decade compilations.  You can use anything currently at your disposal that meets the criteria, but can’t, say, download something from Amazon.  If there’s a backstory that explains the context of the album you can add that in, too.

And god help us if you happen to be a tween whose music consists entirely of Justin Bieber, Miley Cyrus, and…insert third crappy artist here.

The big question, really, is what would an make an alien decide to do this?  My theory is that the alien would want to hear how humans present their stories and their condition and justify making it through another day.  As such, that’s the music I would pick.

Here’s my list:

Sons of Bill, Sirens

This one is probably the biggest risk on the list, since it seems like a bad idea to rest 1/5 of the world’s hope on an album by a still-basically-unheard band that just came out last month.  I’m pretty sure the Sons of Bill can take that burden, though.  The reason this one gets the nod is that most of the rest of this list lacks kick-in-the-ass music, so I think it’s good to start here.  The album bleeds with pathos, regret, anger, and longing, balanced by hope, determination, and the belief that, yes, it’s possible to do better tomorrow if you just get up and try.  All of it is presented with the language of philosophy and the tent revival, making for an intricate, intelligent album layered with meaning.  It’s basically the whole of the human experience distilled down to 50 minutes.

The Beatles, Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band

I was going to leave The Beatles off this list, since, y’know, it’s The Beatles and they always end up on lists like this.  Then I was looking at my Beatles stuff and remembered, “Oh, yeah, there’s a reason that The Beatles always end up on lists like this.”  Given a choice, I’ll take Sgt. Peppers, since it’s kind of a toss-up between that, Rubber Soul, and Abbey Road for me.  Pretty much anything that ends with “A Day in the Life” is a winner in my book, though.

Harry Connick, Jr., Star Turtle

Say what you will about Harry Connick, Jr., but when he’s on, he’s on.  Star Turtle is simply a great album.  It also brings in a jazz/blues/big band flavor that might be helpful in the defense of the Earth.  There’s a hole in my setup in that most of my blues collection is of the compilation/greatest hits variety.  So I disqualified all my Buddy Guy from my own fake scenario, which is problematic, since there are few places better to go than an old bluesman to understand the human experience.  Basically, what I’m saying is that this list really needs some John Lee Hooker or Howlin’ Wolf, but it gets none.  I’m smart like that.

But, again, I loves me some Harry Connick, Jr.  And since Star Turtle is a concept album built around the idea of helping a visitor from outer space understand what it means to be human[1]…well…

Over the Rhine, Ohio

First, I figured this list needed a female voice.  Second, I feel like it’s almost cheating to go with Ohio, since it’s a double album.  Third, I’m totally okay with that.  The Earth’s fate is at stake, so I’ll totally cheat at any contest to keep the ol’ place up and running.

But, yeah.  When I think of my favorite bands, Over the Rhine is always in the top tier.  When I think of genuinely great albums, Ohio is pretty high up there, too.  Part of the reason is the way that Over the Rhine communicates the human experience.

Paul Simon, Graceland

I’m going to be honest: I was listening to Graceland when I came up with this idea.  If I had one album to prove that humanity is a worthwhile endeavor, I’d pick Graceland.  It’s not a surprising pick, really, since Graceland always makes this list, much like The Beatles.  Again, though, there’s a reason for that.  Graceland is freaking amazing and it totally covers the entirety of the human experience.

There’s the joy coupled with despair of “The Boy in the Bubble.”[2]  That’s followed by the hope coupled with grief of “Graceland.”  Actually, if I had to choose two songs, I think I could do worse than to just play the first two songs of Graceland.  Fortunately, though, I get the whole album.  If you can listen to “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes” or “You Can Call Me Al” and not understand the world a little better, I don’t want to know you.  If you can listen to the duet with Linda Ronstadt in “Under African Skies” or the work with Ladysmith Black Mumbazo in “HomeLess” and not be moved, chances are that you’re more alien than the aliens.[4]

It occurs to me, too, that there’s an interesting trend in my five choices.  They all end really, really well from the perspective of the telling of the human experience.  Sirens closes out with “Virginia Calling,” which contains an indescribably amazing recounting of hope in the midst of broken dreams and longing for home.[5]  Sgt. Peppers ends with “A Day in the Life,” a meditation on all that’s mundane in life and the confusion of living it.  It hits that death and life dichotomy thing right in the bullseye.  Star Turtle ends with “City Beneath the Sea” (if we ignore “Star Turtle 4,” which I advocate).  See footnote 1 for that one.  Ohio closes out with “Bothered,” which hits the whole recollection, fear, determination, and the importance of getting through it all with love thing quite well.  Graceland brings us “All Around the World or The Myth of Fingerprints,” which is all about how, for all our differences, humans have a common nature.  Maybe it’s enough to make the aliens think about what they have in common with us, too.

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Also, too, here’s my list of alternates:

Peter Gabriel, So

This was originally in Sgt. Pepper’s slot.  It’s a great album, but in the end it really doesn’t get the point across that I was looking to make.

The Waterboys, Rock in the Weary Land

This would pretty much be my bench album.  Like, if the aliens decided that they wanted something more than three months old and kicked Sons of Bill out, then, boom, Mike Scott and the Waterboys would get the call.

Our Lady Peace, Spiritual Machines

It’s kinda-sorta a concept album that’s a meditation on the human condition.  So, yeah, I thought about it.

Harry Connick, Jr., She

This was actually on the list in Star Turtle’s place originally.  I just realized that Star Turtle was a better fit.

Flogging Molly, Float

This pretty much hits the same notes I figured Sirens hits.  I just think that Sirens does it better.

Flight of the Conchords, Flight of the Conchords

Because, really, who could destroy the planet that brought “Hiphopopotamus v. Rhymenocerous” into the universe?

Rachael Yamagata, Happenstance

Honestly, I tend to forget about this album.  But it’s really good and has a lot of meaningful stuff.  It’s just a little too one-note in terms of temperament.

Poe, Haunted

It could totally work.  Just go with me on that one.

And I think I’ll stop before the list of alternatives actually doubles the original list, especially since I’m actually kind of feeling self-conscious about my music collection right now.  The stuff at my disposal at the moment seems to be skewing pretty new.

Either way, talk amongst yourselves.  What would you play?

Alternately, what album would you play if you wanted the aliens to say, “Fuck this planet?”  I, personally, think that we should go out in a blaze of Chumbawumba.  Or possibly Hanson.

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[1]I think.  The stories told by the interstitials have never been that clear to me.  That could be mostly because I skip them and go straight to the music.  Judging by the album cover, though, I think the album is what happens when you get drunk, paint a star on a convenient reptile’s back, and pass out in a park.  If you’re Harry Connick, Jr. you make a hell of an album out of the experience.

When I went to New Orleans I drove into town listening to Star Turtle.  I ended up going too far on I-10 and took a convenient exit into a part of town that, well, let’s just say that it was the sort of place where I reflexively locked the doors.  At the exact moment I realized I wasn’t in the best part of town “City Beneath the Sea” came on, which is a tribute to New Orleans.  Since New Orleans has actually been beneath the sea since then and the scars of Katrina are visible everywhere it was an interesting moment.  The people I locked my doors to keep out while I was passing through their neighborhood were the same people that folks exactly like me left to die.

I’m not really sure what the point of that story is.  I’d like to offer some sort of uplifting message to finish it off.  But, really, what can I say?

Oh, and I still think “City Beneath the Sea” is an excellent song.  Part of the reason is because it now reminds me of that moment.  I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

[2]Peter Gabriel did a version of “Boy in the Bubble” that couples the musical mood to the lyrics.  It’s a very, VERY different song when done that way.  I’m not going to diminish Peter Gabriel, since he has impeccable credentials and, for that matter, So was originally on this list.  But the brilliance of “Boy in the Bubble” is the way that it couples the sad words with jaunty lyrics.

That, apropos of nothing, reminds me of nothing so much as the newly-released song by Scott Lucas & the Married Men, Blood Half Moons.  I’ll let Scott explain: 

For 'Blood Half Moons' -- which is the closest I've ever gotten to a beautiful piece of music -- I drove around in the desert for a couple of days and came back with lyrics full of blood, crows and whiskey," Lucas says. "And that dichotomy -- the light of the music vs. the darkness of the lyrics -- only serves to reinforce each other. It makes the songs seem MORE hopeful than if it was all flowers and babies. At least, to me.[3]

I disagree with Scott on one point.  He wrote a couple of genuinely beautiful pieces of music for George Lassos the Moon.  “Stolen Umbrellas” and “Weatherman” fit that category as well as “Blood Half Moons” in my book.  Other than that, well, he’s basically just explained “Boy in the Bubble” better than I could.

[3]Also, too, I’ve got a running theory that Scott Lucas is some sort of anti-Roger Clyne, my theory being that the bourbon makes Scott Lucas mean and the tequila makes Roger Clyne happy.  As such, Scott Lucas’s explanation for “Blood Half Moons” doesn’t surprise me one bit, since it sounds exactly like something Roger Clyne would say.  Also, too, I’m pretty sure that the song that would come out of that story for Roger would be “Nada.”  I also happen to know that the founding epic of Roger Clyne & the Peacemakers was about Roger and PH going backpacking in the Sonoran Desert.

[4]I also realized while listening to Graceland this morning that “Gumboots” and “I Know What I Know” fit in that category of songs that make no sense if you listen to the words but make perfect sense if you just kind of listen.

This, in turn, caused me to realize that Paul Simon shares a lot more in common with Mike Doughty than the fact that they’re both short, white, singer-songwriters who are much better off without Art Garfunkel.  Mike Doughty is pretty much a master at telling a story without using two words that actually belong next to each other.  The problem there, though, is that if I needed someone to make the case that humanity deserves saving, Mike Doughty doesn’t necessarily fill me with the same level of confidence as Paul Simon.

[5]The second-to-last song is “Last Call at the Eschaton.”  So if we get aliens with a sense of irony, that’ll help.

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EDIT:  Gah, there was a glaring error in the Sons of Bill entry of the "I didn't proofread to make sure the tenses still agree and sentences are still complete after editing a thought and separating out a run-on sentence" variety.  Proofread, kids.  And always do it twice.  Especially since that one thing you glaringly screwed up might be seen by the person/persons you're writing about and they might slap a link up on Facebook.  Like, say, the thing that just happened today.  Oops.

Now Begins the Spring of Our Discombobulation

So the tail-end of April and the beginning of May will be a crazy time for me.  As such, there will undoubtedly be (more of) a lull in the blogging.

I am hoping, however, to create some content over the next week that I can spread out.  There should, for instance, be some more iterations of "A Distant, Dreadful Star" in the near future.  So, hey!

If you're looking for something to do in the meantime, just go read some Charles Pierce.  He tends to say what I'm thinking, but in ways that are more erudite and hilarious.  And the bastard gets paid for it.

Meanwhile, if you need me, I'll be over in the corner, eating paint chips.




By the way, the names on some of these things are awful.  I mean, I think I'll be painting my kitchen Desert Lily.  Then I'll be painting the bedroom Tea & Honey, since Ralph Lauren seems to have gotten out of the paint game, so I can't go find a Tea & Sweets paint chip, but Glidden's Tea & Honey is pretty much the same damn thing.  But I could always do Lilting Laughter or Pueblo Sand.  But I just don't know whether to do the office in Aegean Mist or Caribbean Mist.  This is hard!

Because I Haven't Linked to Charles Pierce In At Least 24 Hours

And because it's completely and totally applicable in the great, grand scheme of things I've been writing about for the last week.  But also because I could do a daily segment of "things I want you to read by Charles Pierce."

You may have noticed that Augusta National and its boss, fake good-old-boy Billy Payne, has gotten its green polyester-pantsed ass in a crack now that a woman named Virginia Rometty is running IBM, and the boss of IBM traditionally gets a membership into Confederacy Acres, but Virginia Rometty lacks the essential penis, so the club's retrograde policy toward half the human race gets another airing. Only this time, it's not just some bothersome activist that they can ignore, it's a dues-fully-paid member of the corporate elite.

Confronted with these facts, New York Times golf writer Karen Crouse opined that she'd rather not cover the Masters until it moves its withered hindquarters out of the 1850's, thanks.

So far so good, right?

Contacted by The Associated Press, Times sports editor Joe Sexton said the comments were, "completely inappropriate and she has been spoken to."

Obviously a woman saying she doesn't want to cover golf at a sexist institution is being inappropriate.  Also obviously the men folk must put that uppity little lady back in her place.  If we don't do that now, who knows what will happen next?  They might go out in public and start careers and even vote.

Hell, they might start to think that they're people.  People who are even equal to the men folk.  We certainly shouldn't allow that.

Tellin' it Like it is...Again...

Cat Valente is one of my favorite fiction authors, mostly because, holy shit can that woman turn a phrase.  I believe I've mentioned that from time to time.

The SFF corner of the internets had a blow-up last week.  If you want to know what happened, Scalzi (who also had something to say on this sort of thing a while back) has the history and various weirdnesses available.  Here's the basic story, though: a respected male writer took a giant dump all over the slate for the Clarke awards and the internet went into a frenzy of (mostly good-natured) craziness.  Because that's what the internet does.

Valente made the point that, sadly, gets made after every one of these things happen.  I don't say "sadly" because it's tired and, geez, why won't these women just shut up about it.  I say "sadly" because I'm genuinely saddened that we keep having to see these things at all.  I wish people could figure out that a woman who voices her own opinion isn't a bitch or a harpy, but a woman with her own goddamn opinion.  I wish people could figure out that, "You deserve to be raped, you bitch," is not now, not ever, and will never, ever, ever, EVER be a correct response to anything, especially someone simply stating her opinion.

I also wish that all the men that then say that the woman in question is complaining about nothing and really should just leave everything well enough alone would do the world a favor and count the number of times random strangers have threatened to rape them for the sin of publicly stating an opinion and shut the fuck up until the reach the number, oh, say, 1.  That would solve a lot of problems right there.

Either way, Cat Valente, folks:

I’m frustrated. I’m tired of the disparity of voices, of who gets written off and who gets their blog posts discussed in The Guardian being dismally predictable. I’m tired of still having the “when men say it it’s awesome and when women say it it’s bitchy” conversation that was supposed to be sorted in 1985. Not because I have a whole bunch of horrible shit about awards that I’d like to say. I don’t. But I have to tell you that I don’t, so that you’ll think I’m a nice girl, so that I don’t come off as threatening, so that you’ll listen to what I say and not just write me off as an angry feminist…what? Bitch. Because feminist bitches are not to be listened to, don’t you know. They are not to be considered, not the way Priest was considered, even by people who disagreed, even by people who thought he went too far and too personal and too much.

It's not exactly as flowery as the Dirge for Prester John, but that'll preach...

Getting Carded, Part 6

The Logan Square/Bucktown/Wicker Park area of Chicago is one of those rapidly gentrifying parts of the North Side of the city.  I tend to skip the sushi places and trendy fusion restaurants and clubs when I go there, though.  For me being in that area generally means that I’m headed to the Double Door.  It’s a good place to get curb tacos, too, I suppose, but we’re done with that conversation for the moment.

For me pretty much every location matters because of the memories I associate with it.  The Double Door, then, is that place where I saw Local H and Lucky Boys Confusion on the same weekend I turned 28.  It’s the place where I found out that the Lovehammers were doing a secret show as “El Aiche.”  It’s the place where I met Marty Casey and tried to take a picture with him but failed miserably due to the fact that I was using my HTC Tilt, which has a shutter speed that’s best described as somewhere between “tectonic” and “glacial.”  I ended up with a picture of the wall of the restaurant above our heads or the street or something instead.  It’s a good place, one of my favorites.[1]

The Double Door is tucked inside the ground floor and basement of a triangular building at the corner where North Avenue, Milwaukee, and Damen meet.  That means that every time I go to the Double Door there’s a moment where I realize, “Oh, I’m at this intersection.”  For some reason I can’t figure out how to remember it between times, but maybe putting this all down in words will do the trick.

I didn’t go to the corner of Milwaukee, Damen, and North for the Double Door the first time.  I went for an event at 826 CHI.  David Eggers, the founder of McSweeney’s and the whole 826 thing was doing a talk and book signing with Valentino Achak Deng, the Lost Boy of the Sudan about whom Eggers wrote the book What is the What.  I wanted to go.  Amy wanted to go way more than I did.  I was totally okay with that confluence of events.

At the time I was still relatively inexperienced at the whole “driving to and in Chicago” thing.  I was also relatively inexperienced at the whole “finding a parking spot in Chicago” thing.  I think I’d probably driven up to Joe’s once or twice and the Vic at least once.  I was also not too good at figuring out how long various activities, up to and including “driving to Bucktown,” “finding a parking space in Bucktown,” and “walking the seven or eight miles from the only available parking space that was, coincidentally, somewhere in Lakeview” would take.  I’m sure that you’ve figured out I was about to experience a disaster of somewhat epic proportions.

Oh, did I also mention that I woefully underestimated exactly how popular the whole “Dave Eggers and Valentino Achak Deng showing up to give a talk in what happened out to be a fairly small room” thing would be?  Yeah…good times.

When we finally got there the place was packed.  Like, to the point where we would have had to stand in line to be amongst the first dozen or so disappointed people.  Amy was pissed.  Like, she was super pissed.  Inconsolably pissed.

Well, she wasn’t quite inconsolably pissed.  They announced that, due to popular demand, there would actually be two presentations that night.  So all we had to do was kill some time and then we’d be able to get in on the Eggers/Deng goodness.

There’s a Starbucks on the corner directly across from the restaurant where, in a happier time, I tried to take a picture with Marty Casey and failed miserably.  It’s south of North Avenue, west of Damen, and in the wide angle where Milwaukee crosses both.  Every time I hit that intersection there’s a brief moment where I see that Starbucks and the geometry of the whole thing hits me and I suddenly realize, “Oh, shit, I’m here.”  I see myself in that Starbucks, sitting across the table from Amy, getting the silent treatment, trying to make the best of the whole thing by saying, “Hey, they’re doing another thing, so that’s good, right?”

Every.  Goddamn.  Time.

It worked out in the end, I suppose.  Amy was, ultimately, happy.  I now own a signed copy of What is the What.  But I remember nothing about that night except for the Starbucks on Milwaukee where it crosses Damen and North.[2]  Specifically, I remember getting the silent treatment and feeling, as I so often did around Amy, like a complete and total jackass.  Not that I would have admitted it at the time, of course.  I was too busy with the, “Why are you so pissed at me?  It’s totally gonna work out in the end,” argument.

Why am I telling you this story?  On one level it’s because I can, I suppose. More importantly, though, it’s because I’ve learned something: if you let someone into your life they will be there forever.  They might not physically stick around, but they will always be there, somewhere, floating at the edges of your memories.  Something will happen and, boom, there they’ll be, casting a shadow on whatever you’re doing wherever you are.

For a long time after Amy I thought the solution to this problem was to simply never let anyone in.  I spent a year and a half sitting alone in my apartment in Brookfield.  I spent a year and a half doing the same thing in Irving, Texas.  I watched too much TV, I drank too much beer, and I worked on building walls around my heart.  I never wanted to ever have to deal with the memories of another person again.

It worked wonderfully, if I’m honest.  As it turns out, I’m really good at building walls and finding ways to occupy my time.  It also happens that my skill set in that department isn’t exactly well-suited for creating any sort of sense of long-term happiness.  Who saw that coming?

I’ve realized something because of this, however.  There’s one and only one metric that actually matters when it comes to deciding who to spend time with.  It’s a simple question: “Is this person worth caring about?”

This isn’t a foolproof question by any stretch of the imagination.  What we think today might be totally different than what we think tomorrow, after all.  Someone I couldn’t imagine living without last Thursday might be persona non grata by next Thursday.  Crazy things happen sometimes.

What this rule of thumb does, though, is remove a lot of the bullshit that gets tossed around in searches for relationship-type-things.  Too much of what people say they’re looking for is the wrong stuff.  It needs to be someone who has X physical quality and Y education and Z career path.  But a person is more than what they look like and where they went to school and how much money they make.  All that shit is transitory compared to the underlying qualities of the person who might look like B and have H education and N career path.

This realization brings with it a certain level of responsibility, however.  If I want to find someone worth caring about then I, myself, must be someone worth caring about.  As such I must learn from my mistakes.  I must work on those things where I need improvement.  I must realize that the times where I remember myself as the innocent victim and the person I was with as in the wrong probably weren’t so cut-and-dry.

I, in short, need to go back to that night at the Starbucks at North, Milwaukee, and Damen.  I need to realize that Amy wasn’t unjustifiably pissed at me that night.  I could have left earlier, after all, and not relied on dumb luck to make sure everything worked out.  Even if everything had happened the exact same way I needed to realize that she was unhappy because she saw an opportunity to do something that she wanted to do slipping away.  She was, in short, someone who had goals and expectations and I had fucked it up for her due to my own (perceived, correctly or otherwise) mistakes.

It’s those realizations that convince me that I can never make life about just what I want and how I want other people to react to me.  There are too many variables out there and the variables are often the very people I want or need around me the most.  Ultimately, I think that’s why I’m not a fan of the whole idea of just going out to find the hottest woman around and trying to sleep with her.  It’s why I’m not a fan of doing the passive-aggressive thing where you try to talk yourself in to someone’s pants from The Friend Zone.

The person across from you is, in fact, a person.  That means you’re looking at someone with their own thoughts, hopes, and dreams.  That means you’re looking at someone who you can help or hurt without even realizing it.  That means you’re looking at someone who might see a coffee shop six years from now and have a sudden, unbidden memory of that time they were in that place with you, doing that thing.

It’s an important thought, I think.  I don’t think I’ve done an even remotely adequate job of covering it, though.  I don’t think I could do so in thirty pages or three hundred pages.  But maybe telling a story and the story of a lesson learned got somewhere in the neighborhood of what I wish I could find the words to say.

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[1]For the record, my four favorite Chicago venues are The Vic, the Beat Kitchen, Joe’s on Weed Street, and the Double Door.  I also like Schuba’s, the Riviera, and the Aragon, although the latter two are in one of the hardest parts of the North Side to reach if you’re driving.  I’ve finally figured out that the trick is to park in a garage in River North that offers night/weekend rates and then take the Red Line or the Brown Line, depending.  Or, y’know, go to a show after work.  That’s always an option.

Parking on the North Side is an awful, awful experience.  Driving on any of the surface streets in Chicago is also an awful, awful experience.  The problem with taking the train at any time that’s not rush hour, however, is that if you miss your train you’re going to be waiting for at least an hour for the next one.  If you miss the last one you’re stuck in the city until about 5 AM.  Driving, then, is a necessary evil.  The trick is to realize that you don’t actually have to drive to the venue itself.

[2]Oh, wait, I remember two things: I left my freaking mp3 player in said Starbucks and had to go there the next day after work to pick it up.  If I recall, it’s the same exact Creative Zen Vision:M that ultimately disappeared after I left it in the seat pocket of a Southwest Airlines flight when I went to Dallas the first time.  It’s equally likely that the one from the Starbucks was my old Dell Pocket DJ, however.  The main issue is that I don’t recall when, exactly, the Eggers near-debacle happened.

Getting Carded, Part 5

There’s no place worse to be than The Friend Zone, amirite, guys?

We all know what The Friend Zone is, I hope.  It’s that terrible purgatory wherein you get to spend a whole bunch of time with that one member of the female gender who is, like, completely perfect for you in a making out and boobie-touching sort of way, but she just won’t let you touch her boobies and totally won’t make out with you.  It’s an awful thing to behold, truly.

And we all know how one gets put into The Friend Zone.  It’s when you, as the guy, say something like, “We should go on a date,” or, “You know we’re perfect for each other, right?” or you keep “accidentally” touching her boobies when you’re hanging out, and then suggest that maybe she should let you actually touch them in a non-accidental sort of way.  But no matter what you do she just plain doesn’t let you touch her boobies or make out with her because she just doesn’t want to ruin your friendship.

Of course that whole thing is bullshit.  She’s just trying to use you.  Or keep you as a backup.[1]  Or string you along out of some sort of crazy-ass sadism because women are evil, controlling bitches like that.

You know, when I put it in those terms, The Friend Zone doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense.  I literally cannot figure out why anyone would want to stay involved in a relationship wherein one person has been put in The Friend Zone.  Obviously the woman doing the putting into The Friend Zone is some sort of using, controlling bitch, so why would her poor victim even want to touch her boobies?[2]  She’s obviously controlling him with her feminine wiles and the poor sap has been brainwashed by boobies.[3]  Boy, howdy, does it ever suck to be that guy.

Wait, no.  That still makes no goddamn sense.

Okay, let me try to figure this out in some way that does make sense.  Okay, what about this: let’s take a hypothetical approach wherein the female in question really does want to be friends and the male in question is a whiny little dipshit.  Then let’s see where this whole thing goes.  Conceptually, of course.  Theoretically, even.  Because we all know that this scenario is, like, totally impossible in reality.

Let’s say that the woman in question genuinely doesn’t want to date right now.  This could be a general thing and she’s totally off the dating scene.  It could also be a specific thing and she doesn’t want to date the guy in question but, like, if Orlando Bloom showed up and said, “Ya wanna go for coffee?” she’d be all, “Yes, Legolas, oh, god, yes.”  It’s not likely, but, hey, it could happen.

Let’s ask the question, “What could possibly going through a woman’s head when she puts some poor guy into The Friend Zone?”  This, of course, depends on any number of factors.  We must consider them.

There are the general environmental factors.  Has she recently experienced a big life changed, including a career change, a death in the family, a cross-country move, or something similar?  Is she currently engaged in some sort of long-term self-improvement project, including going back to school, trying to write the great American novel, putting more of her time into charitable giving, or finally learning how to make those awesome pastries she’s always wanted to learn to make?  Is something taking up a shitload of her time, such as finishing her Masters while working full-time, a huge project at work, an ailing family member, or a recently purchased house that needs a lot of work?   Has she recently gotten out of a long-term relationship?  Has she recently gotten out of a short but intense relationship?  Has she experienced a string of bad relationships with guys who suck?  Is she, for that matter, currently in a relationship?

Once we get through the general environmental factors we need to ask specific factors.  Does she tend to date dumb jock types while you happen to be a pointy-headed intellectual type?  Are you pretty much her only friend and confidant?  Does she happen to be best friends with your sister?

These are all valid, nay, important questions to consider.  This list is also far, far from exhaustive.  Chances are that these or similar questions are all part of the mental calculus a woman puts into a potential relationship.

Guys, on the other hand, pretty much only ask two questions:

1.  “Is she hot?”

2.  “Is she single?”[4]

If the answers are, “Yes,” and, “Yes,” respectively, then there shouldn’t be any roadblocks in the way.  Any woman who does put up a road block, then, is being some sort of scheming bitch who is trying to destroy the guy in question.  Because, really, what else does a relationship need?

The problem with this difference in approach is pretty simple: the guy signals that he doesn’t actually give a shit about the supposed object of his affection.  If it’s only worthwhile to be friends with someone if she’ll make out with you and let you touch her boobies, then that person has been reduced to tongue, lips, and boobies.  It’s really that simple.

As such, the guy who sits around and bitches about being relegated to The Friend Zone sends the message that he is not and never will be boyfriend material.  Because, really, why would anyone want to date someone who doesn’t actually give a shit about them?  I suppose that there are women out there who are like that, though.  So maybe Captain Friend Zone needs to go find one of them.  Chances are he’ll be doing the object of his attention a great service if he does.

For the record, I’m not saying any of these things as someone who hasn’t fucked this up.  I totally have.  I’ve simply made it a point to learn from my mistakes.

Amy and I dated for about three months, then spent the next year and a half or so in this kinda-sorta pseudo relationship thingy that was bad for everyone involved.  For whatever reason she decided it wasn’t going to work and then tried to Friend Zone me, with a certain level of success, most of which had to be qualified by me pointing out that I did the passive-aggressive douchebag thing for most of that time.  After we stopped talking I realized from time to time that I actually missed her.  It wasn’t that I missed sitting around thinking about how great it would be if she let me touch her boobies.  It was that I missed having her around as someone to talk to and as someone who I knew would know Thing X about Subject Y that I, personally, knew fuck all about or would want to talk about Subject Z that I knew most other people I know couldn't be arsed to discuss.  Ergo, I hadn’t broken up with someone, I’d lost a friend.  I missed that particular friend and there was no getting her back.

Meanwhile, at a later, non-disclosed point in time I met a woman I came to value as a friend.  She was in a relationship when I met her.  I eventually figured out that she was actually someone I would date in a heartbeat if the opportunity presented itself.

Eventually she broke up with the guy, which I considered a good move on her part.  It wasn’t because I knew I could then make my move, but because she wasn’t happy and I wanted her to be happy because she totally deserved to be happy.  The fact is that by the time that happened our friendship had progressed to the point where I didn’t want to potentially fuck it up by making a pass and finding out she totally wasn’t interested.

The fact of the matter is that I know the standard guy response to that situation is, “Ask her out.  Who cares about the consequences?”

I do, that’s who.  And I care because in the final analysis I ended up being more unhappy that I didn’t let Amy Friend Zone me than that she didn’t let me play with her boobies and make out with her and shit.

Turns out the dreaded Friend Zone isn’t necessarily such a bad place to be.

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[1]I originally wrote this as “Or keep you as a backpack,” which would be really, really weird.

[2]I mean, other than the obvious reason.  Boobies are fun to touch, after all.

[3]Brainwashed By Boobies is also the name of The Curb Tacos’ debut album.  Out June 12th.

[4]This question is, sadly, optional for some guys.

Getting Carded, Part 4

When we last left off I was calling bullshit.  Specifically, I was calling bullshit on this:

It's because, in males more so than females, the sex drive is completely detached from the rest of the personality. The part of the male brain that worries about job security or money or social reputation or legal consequences has almost no veto power over the sex drive. You've heard guys say they were "thinking with their dick" or "I was thinking with the little brain" or "I took an order from Captain Bonerhelmet." That's what they're referring to.  [Emphasis mine]

I have a huge problem with the line of thought in the bolded sentence.  My problem is that it’s in an article that’s ostensibly written as a defense of women against the predation of men, but that single sentence negates pretty much every good thing that the article could have said (which, sadly, were few and far between).  See, by offering an awful and convenient evo-devo explanation the author totally takes all responsibility for men’s behavior out of the hands of men.  Don’t believe me?

Science doesn't seem to totally understand why the "base urges" part of the brain reacts differently in men. Maybe it's just a matter of having 10 times as much testosterone in their system, or maybe society has trained us to be like this, or maybe we're all spoiled children. My theory is that evolution needs males who will stay horny even in times of crisis or distress, and thus cuts off the brain's ability to tamp down those urges. Whatever -- nailing down the cause isn't the point.  [Emphasis mine]

Um, yes, as a matter of fact, nailing down the cause should be the point.  It should be the entire goddamn point.  And just dismissing male tendencies in the horniness department as “men need to be horny during distress” is fuck stupid.  You know what happens to be a really good way of getting your dumb, horny ass killed?  Stopping to rub one out while being chased across the savannah by a hungry lion, that’s what.  You know what’s a really bad idea during one of those “times of distress” that might include things like “famine” and “drought” and “spending a year stuck in a city besieged by ravening hordes of Huns?”  Bringing more hungry mouths into the world, that’s what.

I, personally, would think that the more logical evolutionary developmental advantage within humanity would go to the one who can control his sexuality.  Yes, there’s the whole propagation of the species through survival of the fittest and wider dissemination of the genes is a total Darwinian concept that makes perfect sense.  But humanity has something that your average mayfly, cuttlefish, or prairie dog lacks: the actual intelligence necessary to engage in long-term thinking.  Actions, after all, have consequences.  My dog doesn’t necessarily have the capacity to understand that, but I sure as shit do.

That, for the record, is pretty much how society works.  We have laws and cultural mores for a reason.  Some of those laws might be stupid.  Some of those cultural mores might be outdated.  But the underlying concept of laws and mores is essential to the proper functioning of human society.  So if you take fifty-percent of humanity, throw your arms up, and say, “Fuck, I don’t know what to do, they’re evolutionarily incapable of understanding consequences,” then YOU.  ARE.  NOT.  HELPING.

It’s as simple as that.

That’s the problem with this entire exercise, though.  The article attempts to say that it’s somehow “society” or “evolution” that causes men to treat women like shit, then passively says, “Well, what’re ya gonna do, boys will be boys, after all.  We can’t be trusted around boobies.”

Step one is to say that, no, it’s not okay.  Step two is to hold that line.  Step three is to smack any whiny, over-privileged twit who tries to go over that line without consequences.  Step four is to smack anyone who lets him get away with it.

It’s really not that complicated.  This isn’t to say it’s particularly simple, as there’s a lot of inertia and unexamined privilege that must be overcome in order to create real, lasting, necessary change.  For the most part it should be an issue of changing mores.  Make it unacceptable to be a douchebag.  Make it clear that certain actions are sexual assault.  Then, when someone crosses that line, don’t let him say, “She was asking for it.”

This is usually when someone comes out with the ol’, “But what about those crazy bitches who accuse guys of rape because they’re, y’know, crazy-ass bitches?”  To be honest, this is problematic.  I have no doubt that there are women somewhere in this world who will run around all willy-nilly claiming that every single guy who’s ever looked at them is engaging in sexual assault.[1]  This, unfortunately, is a problem we have to deal with all the time in society.

What’s to stop my neighbor from accusing me of stealing his laptop?  What’s to stop someone walking down the street from calling the cops and claiming I tried to run her over with my car?  Nothing.  Nothing at all.  This is the risk of living within a society.

Accusations of crimes related to sex are also far, far more complicated and fraught with social peril than accusations of property theft.  In most cases it’s literally a case of the word of one against the word of another without any witnesses.  That’s truly problematic and does open well-meaning people up to spurious and false accusations that they cannot disprove.

The solution to this seemingly intractable problem, though, is not to simply allow one half of the population to get away with anything they want because, fuck, man, what’re you supposed to do?  That’s the world we live in right now.  Boys will be boys, after all.  They can’t be expected to consider the consequences.[2]  Besides, she should have known better than to put herself in a position where those uncontrolled and uncontrollable boys would see her and she sure as hell should have known better than to have a history of being sexually active.  Really, if a woman has had one penis inside of her then that means she wants to have every other penis inside of her at any given time, regardless of whether she knows the guy or likes him or wants to have sex at this particular moment.

That doesn’t sound fair to me.  And if it sounds fair to you, chances are you’re some sort of MRA and/or PUA douchebag and, quite frankly, the only solution to that is castration with a rusty X-Acto knife.  Sorry, bro, you know what they say, “Life’s a bitch, then you marry one.”  Har-har.

David Wong does try to avoid the exceedingly negative implications of his argument:

No, this doesn't excuse anything. Obviously, "She was asking for it!" is still a bullshit rape defense. All I'm saying is when you see guys actually get annoyed or angry at the sight of a girl showing too much skin, or if you see them eager to degrade or humiliate the girls at the strip club, this is why. It's probably why some Muslims make their women cover themselves head to toe.

While the disclaimer at the start is nice, the rest of the thing is pretty fucking stupid.  It makes sense if you genuinely believe that men are uncontrollable horndogs, I suppose.  But, again, all this does is say that it’s all the woman’s fault.  Humiliation, abuse, and strictly enforced dress codes are not an issue of men recognizing their limitations, either.  They are the artifacts of control, plain and simple.

And that is why we need to change up the cultural mores and stop saying that men can’t be expected to control themselves or consider the consequences of their actions.  It’s not some strange, amorphous “society” putting these limitations on women and allowing men to run about in a blissful fog, free of any consequences of their actions.  It’s men.  You know how I know that?  Because I happen to know that men are in society, men have most of the power in society, and the way society is formulated is strangely skewed to give men more power and privilege than women.

So, yeah, that’s all I have to say about that for the moment.  Stay tuned, though, since I’m going to veer off of the David Wong article and take all a y’alls into a place I’m sure you don’t want to go: The Friend Zone.

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[1]Seriously, I knew someone in college who was a social work major and one day, out of fucking nowhere, put this big, long diatribe out (on Facebook, if I recall) about how every man in the world was a rapist and not to be trusted.  Except her current boyfriend, of course.  She also accused me of being a tool of the Devil and attempting to undermine her once because she got it into her head that I had been pulling the strings on something that I had only a tangential connection to.  There is little doubt in my mind that, yes, she could end up accusing some dude of rape because he bumped into her on the sidewalk.

[2]Some people, of course, genuinely can’t think past the action to the consequences.  I do not think that this is or should be thought of as a normative male modality.  I think that your average male is completely and totally capable of controlling himself, but we as a society have not given enough incentive to do so.  I’ll also note that the primary drivers of the laws and law enforcement in our society are men.  Strange coincidence, that…