The following piece was previously run on the Pop Culture Institute November 20th, 2006; I decided it fits in better here. ~ MSM
If my life was a porn star his name would be Rock Bottom.
Ah, the power of a good opening line. I approached my desk this evening with those thirteen gem-like words and little else. With only hope to guide me, I set out to seek for progress.
Witty one-liners aside, coaxing quality out of any of the last seven days has proven a Herculean task. At least when Herc had to dredge the Augean stables he had a proper shovel. It seems to me I've been mucking out far worse for most of my life with nothing more than a spoon, and a plastic spoon at that, the kind that comes with a Peanut Buster parfait.
Imagine my life, if you will, as a butterfly. Now drop upon that butterfly a steaming pile of dung. There -- you've got my life. A lovely, delicate creature crushed by someone else's shit.
For most of my life I just accepted it, the way you might an amputation, or a sibling. Some people have gorgeous, perfect lives all their lives, and others have steaming piles of dung constantly dropped on theirs. These things happen.
Oh, I hear what you're saying: no one's life is perfect. Consider only that next to a steaming pile of dung your modicum of success and tolerable sex life look pretty sweet. I just wish, if you were going to rub my face in it you'd actually rub my face in it, especially the sex life part. I am gagging for a shag, and I don't mean a haircut like Chrissie Hynde's.
Lately it occurred to me that I may have something wrong with me. (It's okay, you can laugh.) No I mean it, something really wrong with me. (It's alright, I'll wait.) Are you done? Good.
Years ago I was watching some Dateline type of show and they were doing a story about post-traumatic stress disorder. Nothing out of the ordinary about that. Fast forward a couple of years to another show, this time about bullying. And in the middle of that show some doctor or expert of some kind came on and said that some children who are bullied develop post-traumatic stress disorder, kind of like combat soldiers.
It was like the Quasimodo in my head decided to ring all the bells at the same time while laughing maniacally. The symptoms of PTSD describe me to a T. It was like reading a really accurate horoscope, or finding your name in a fortune cookie.
It turns out I may have used my naturally sensitive nature, and an ordinary if upsetting childhood event, combined with an affinity for a certain meme in children's literature, and out of that concocted for myself a lifetime of unholy hell. Oops.
Now, a couple of infotainment segments and websites don't make me an expert diagnostician, but I know what I feel. I know how I react to sudden loud noises. If it's sunny and a bird flies over, that shadow falling across me can give me a panic attack that lasts all day. Worst of all, when a good-looking man talks to me it's like I have a mouthful of sand.
Sudden violent outbursts "relieved" only by periods of debilitating anxiety on what feels like a neverending loop can't get me to seek professional help, but never underestimate the motivating power of horniness. I will be checking out the PTSD clinic at UBC, based on the idea that the usual awful things that have happened to me have happened to everyone, except that most people get over them and I can't, or won't.
Either way, it's time I found out which it is: can't, or won't. Having lived for years believing that I won't get better because I don't want to, I need to find out if, in fact, I can't get better because I don't know how to because I'm still grieving every other damn thing that's ever happened to me.
I am Charlie Brown -- thus the title of this post. I'm all grown up now, and it still always feels like there's some bitch in a blue dress trying to kill me (metaphorically speaking, of course).
Thanks to the sexy geniuses at Fantagraphics I've been enjoying the opportunity to revisit the world of Peanuts, and more specifically the life of Charlie Brown. He's a kind, bright kid; maybe he's a little funny looking, has a big head, but he loves his dog. He tries hard to live up to everybody's expectations yet always falls a little short, and frets endlessly about his own shortcomings to anyone who'll listen or at least not walk away. He's never malicious but is the recipient of so much bile I can scarcely believe it ran in daily papers in the Fifties.
Oh, and also, he's fictional and I'm real. Did Charles Schulz describe a boy like me, or did I become a boy like Charlie Brown? The idea that my life sucks today because I let one single event in my life snowball out of control beggars my imagination, but not as much as the idea that I didn't have to let it happen.
And if it turns out not to be PTSD, maybe the good doctors can tell me what's really wrong with me before I hurt myself or someone else.
I can only hope.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Unspecified Free-Floating Blah
It's back again - that gross feeling I get from time to time that everything is boring and nothing matters and what's the point anyway since W's gonna nuke us all off the planet on his last day in office (if not sooner).
Partly I realize it's the withdrawal from the pot, and I know it'll be gone in a couple of days, but in gazing into my own abyss I tend to get a little vertigo; there's always the possibility that I'll fall in.
Ever since I read that stress makes you gain weight I've done my utmost to eliminate stress from my life. Then I read specifically how stress makes you gain weight, and I have to admit, that kinda stressed me out. If I thought I could rant without it showing up on my ass I would.
It's definitely not the life I imagined I'd have; then again it was unlikely I was ever going to be Batman, marry Keanu Reeves, and invent tabletop fusion. Still, I figured I might some day become useful, find someone who'd love me, and create something meaningful to leave behind.
Well, what can I do? Quitting won't accomplish anything. Persistence might not accomplish anything either, but at least it'll give me something to do with my time until I have to deal with the fact that it was all for nothing.
Partly I realize it's the withdrawal from the pot, and I know it'll be gone in a couple of days, but in gazing into my own abyss I tend to get a little vertigo; there's always the possibility that I'll fall in.
Ever since I read that stress makes you gain weight I've done my utmost to eliminate stress from my life. Then I read specifically how stress makes you gain weight, and I have to admit, that kinda stressed me out. If I thought I could rant without it showing up on my ass I would.
It's definitely not the life I imagined I'd have; then again it was unlikely I was ever going to be Batman, marry Keanu Reeves, and invent tabletop fusion. Still, I figured I might some day become useful, find someone who'd love me, and create something meaningful to leave behind.
Well, what can I do? Quitting won't accomplish anything. Persistence might not accomplish anything either, but at least it'll give me something to do with my time until I have to deal with the fact that it was all for nothing.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
"You Know I'm No Good" by Amy Winehouse
Currently my new favourite song, by a woman with some issues of her own. You get better girl, and I promise, I will too.
Friday, September 21, 2007
A State of Mind Address
It's been over a month now since I last barfed up a wad of self-loathing online; a couple of the people who occasionally peek in at this site have recently contacted me offline with their congratulations on a month well-lived. I've accepted their thanks, but in the same way I've learned to accept praise: through gritted teeth.
Naturally, the reason isn't as simple as all that.
Have I foregone self-loathing for an entire month? Ha! In fact, since my art may depend on it (and my personality virtually demands it) I dare say it'll never go away completely, nor do I want it to. The truth of the matter is, I hate myself because I love myself. Once I figure out exactly how such a thing is possible, I'll let you know.
I have felt the self-loathing weakening, though, especially since I started this blog; but one doesn't put aside a lifetime's skewed reasoning and persona dysphoria in such a short time. No, rest assured I still have moments every day when I can barely stand myself; considering how much time in the day I spend with myself, this makes for a lot of very long days indeed.
This blog represents a truce between me, myself, and I. After all, divorce is not an option in this case. The peace it's brokered is a fragile one, and there are still plenty of skirmishes along the frontiers, but for the most part the peace has held.
The reason for this is that self-loathing is counter-productive, and I'm currently in a phase of my life when I need to be as productive as possible. My entire career is beginning to open wide, and once it does, I'd kind of like the option to say Ahhh instead of Ewww.
So what's next?
Generating original content for the other side - the Pop Culture Institute - means I'll be having to appear on film, which is ghastly enough. Films also need narration, and editing, both of which involve confronting myself in ways I don't care to ever do. I've done everything in my power to curtail as much of this as I can, but am simply unable to do away with it altogether, at least for the time being.
This calls on even more creativity than writing and performing, because I'll have to record and photograph myself in the best possible way. Since I don't believe I deserve such treatment, there's also a cognitive dissonance to deal with. In other words, it's not about me, it's about the blog.
It also means that I have to make these particular videos as spectacular as can be, so that maybe I can start hiring actors to do my performing for me. I mean, if Woody Allen can have John Cusack and Kenneth Branagh substituting for him - the kind of stretch that would kill a yoga master - I should be able to find some exposure-starved up-and-coming actor or other such human tautology to take my place on screen.
Fortunately I have no self-loathing where my abilities are concerned, in fact, quite the opposite. Once I'm able to completely remove myself visually and vocally from the equation I should prove to be a spectacularly successful producer. In the same way that once I'm able to afford the kind of solitude that would make J. D. Salinger seem like a contestant on Big Brother, I should prove to be a very good novelist.
Since the majority of my self-loathing is reinforced by social interaction, I've begun doing everything in my power to rid me of this potentially risky behaviour. This means I'm completely done thinking of myself as anybody's potential date, and limiting other contact to the few friends I've managed to keep and, of course, work and other professional situations. In this way, I should be able to trick myself into at least looking confident to anyone on the outside looking in.
Naturally, the reason isn't as simple as all that.
Have I foregone self-loathing for an entire month? Ha! In fact, since my art may depend on it (and my personality virtually demands it) I dare say it'll never go away completely, nor do I want it to. The truth of the matter is, I hate myself because I love myself. Once I figure out exactly how such a thing is possible, I'll let you know.
I have felt the self-loathing weakening, though, especially since I started this blog; but one doesn't put aside a lifetime's skewed reasoning and persona dysphoria in such a short time. No, rest assured I still have moments every day when I can barely stand myself; considering how much time in the day I spend with myself, this makes for a lot of very long days indeed.
This blog represents a truce between me, myself, and I. After all, divorce is not an option in this case. The peace it's brokered is a fragile one, and there are still plenty of skirmishes along the frontiers, but for the most part the peace has held.
The reason for this is that self-loathing is counter-productive, and I'm currently in a phase of my life when I need to be as productive as possible. My entire career is beginning to open wide, and once it does, I'd kind of like the option to say Ahhh instead of Ewww.
So what's next?
Generating original content for the other side - the Pop Culture Institute - means I'll be having to appear on film, which is ghastly enough. Films also need narration, and editing, both of which involve confronting myself in ways I don't care to ever do. I've done everything in my power to curtail as much of this as I can, but am simply unable to do away with it altogether, at least for the time being.
This calls on even more creativity than writing and performing, because I'll have to record and photograph myself in the best possible way. Since I don't believe I deserve such treatment, there's also a cognitive dissonance to deal with. In other words, it's not about me, it's about the blog.
It also means that I have to make these particular videos as spectacular as can be, so that maybe I can start hiring actors to do my performing for me. I mean, if Woody Allen can have John Cusack and Kenneth Branagh substituting for him - the kind of stretch that would kill a yoga master - I should be able to find some exposure-starved up-and-coming actor or other such human tautology to take my place on screen.
Fortunately I have no self-loathing where my abilities are concerned, in fact, quite the opposite. Once I'm able to completely remove myself visually and vocally from the equation I should prove to be a spectacularly successful producer. In the same way that once I'm able to afford the kind of solitude that would make J. D. Salinger seem like a contestant on Big Brother, I should prove to be a very good novelist.
Since the majority of my self-loathing is reinforced by social interaction, I've begun doing everything in my power to rid me of this potentially risky behaviour. This means I'm completely done thinking of myself as anybody's potential date, and limiting other contact to the few friends I've managed to keep and, of course, work and other professional situations. In this way, I should be able to trick myself into at least looking confident to anyone on the outside looking in.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Moving: A Decision
For the past few weeks I've had to decide whether or not I should stay in Vancouver or else move somewhere the gay men aren't such total stuck-up bitches. Recently, I decided it was either Victoria, BC, Kingston, Ontario, or Titan, one of the moons of one of them big planets. (Jupiter? Saturn?) Honestly, I could look it up, but this is funnier.
Or, as a third option, I could figure out how to spend the 5 grand it would cost to move house across country to make things more bearable for me here. You know, a couple of local trips, some new amenities, maybe a larger apartment.
Maybe staying put has won. For five grand I can do alot to fill up the empty hours I spend alone because every single one of my friends is too busy to go for coffee with me for half an hour six or eight weeks in a row. Hell, maybe I can even find some new friends who actually want to spend time with me. It could happen.
Whenever I'm down there are two things which never fail to cheer me up: The Queen, and puppets.
Ever since I was a little kid, it's always been that way. When I was talking to my mother the last time she told me she noticed that whenever I was upset and the Queen came on the news I cheered up instantly as young as four years old. I was five when the Muppet Show started, but prior to that Sesame Street used to do the trick.
Even those namby-pamby puppets of Mr. Rogers' used to get me giggling. So that's what I'm going to do now.
Or, as a third option, I could figure out how to spend the 5 grand it would cost to move house across country to make things more bearable for me here. You know, a couple of local trips, some new amenities, maybe a larger apartment.
Maybe staying put has won. For five grand I can do alot to fill up the empty hours I spend alone because every single one of my friends is too busy to go for coffee with me for half an hour six or eight weeks in a row. Hell, maybe I can even find some new friends who actually want to spend time with me. It could happen.
Whenever I'm down there are two things which never fail to cheer me up: The Queen, and puppets.
Ever since I was a little kid, it's always been that way. When I was talking to my mother the last time she told me she noticed that whenever I was upset and the Queen came on the news I cheered up instantly as young as four years old. I was five when the Muppet Show started, but prior to that Sesame Street used to do the trick.
Even those namby-pamby puppets of Mr. Rogers' used to get me giggling. So that's what I'm going to do now.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Fed Up With Facebook
It seems like the more ways we have to connect with each other the harder it is to actually do it. The corollary of this, in personal terms, is: the more ways there are for people to ignore me the more ignored I'll be.
I've given up on Facebook, and I'm about ready to call it quits with blogging and friendships and the lot. After all, what's the point of even trying to be out there for all and sundry when nobody even bothers to reply to your emails? Or your voice messages, or any of it?
Especially since my own friends don't even seem to have the time for me anymore. The same friends who are constantly moaning about how they never have anything to do refuse to respond to my offers of things to do whenever I make them.
Honestly, I think they just like complaining.
Not that I have a problem with complaining; I do it all the time. But then I at least try to do something about whatever it is that's caused my complaint. If I feel fat I exercise, if I'm bored I do something. It's not difficult to overcome a complaint, profiding you actually want to.
Facebook might as well be high school, and as poorly as I did there, I'm doing even worse at Facebook. In the great popularity contest called life I am still what I ever was: too old, fat, and ugly to matter.
In fact, if you have any left over rudeness that you don't know what to do with, you might as well send it my way. I won't know what to do with it, but you can rest assured I will take it personally. Especially if I don't know you.
I've given up on Facebook, and I'm about ready to call it quits with blogging and friendships and the lot. After all, what's the point of even trying to be out there for all and sundry when nobody even bothers to reply to your emails? Or your voice messages, or any of it?
Especially since my own friends don't even seem to have the time for me anymore. The same friends who are constantly moaning about how they never have anything to do refuse to respond to my offers of things to do whenever I make them.
Honestly, I think they just like complaining.
Not that I have a problem with complaining; I do it all the time. But then I at least try to do something about whatever it is that's caused my complaint. If I feel fat I exercise, if I'm bored I do something. It's not difficult to overcome a complaint, profiding you actually want to.
Facebook might as well be high school, and as poorly as I did there, I'm doing even worse at Facebook. In the great popularity contest called life I am still what I ever was: too old, fat, and ugly to matter.
In fact, if you have any left over rudeness that you don't know what to do with, you might as well send it my way. I won't know what to do with it, but you can rest assured I will take it personally. Especially if I don't know you.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Who Knew Hot Guys Got The Blues?
If ever I thought the Internet was an entity - which lives and thinks and acts - it's lately. Sometimes it's like the Internet is reading my mind, waiting until I know what I want before sending me just what it is I'm looking for.
While sitting here, wallowing in my own (let's face it) homemade self-pity, I have happened upon at least two guys - both my fellow bloggers - who, in some ways, have it worse than me, despite being everything I'm not. Why? But more to the point: WHY???
Because self-loathing is as prevalent on this planet as the stench of nitrogen, that's why. It seems that everybody has to feel bad for themselves or else the entire economy will collapse. Western Civilisation, after all, is based on consumerism. Oh, and Christian hatred.
Now I get why I have to feel bad for myself. After all, I am nominally homo despite being a) too old to be gay (which ends at age 24), b) too fat to be gay (damn my double digit BMI), and c) ugly (the gay cardinal sin) due to a minor birth defect which makes my mouth look like I've had a stroke - which is not a good look to begin with, and an even worse look on a giant Charlie Brown head.
Even if I should occasionally come up with a half-ways decent day (typically by accident), there's always some mirror and/or loudmouthed bitch ready to remind me why my self-esteem (and only mine) is verboten. For this reason, I tend to keep the good moods well-concealed behind a facade of bitterness and cynicism which is utterly rococo.
These guys are Library Muscle Guy and to an even greater extent Gay Canuck in the Capital. Now, I'm not denigrating anyone's legitimate right to have issues, or to be unhappy. After all, people are abused, told they're worthless, and generally spat upon every day of their lives - gay men especially - so some of it's bound to sink in.
I like these guys, despite the fact that if they were standing in front of me I'd not only refuse to talk to them but probably run screaming from their presence. I like that they are, like I am, using their blogs to get to the bottom of their yuck. I mean, how can you not admire that? If only from afar.
I guess it's just that I have nothing in common with them, despite our similarities. Reading their work, though, forces me to empathize, which is more than a little confusing. How, after all, can I empathize with a guy who can't choose which of the many men who are hot for him to go out with? To the best of my knowledge, I've never even had two guys who liked me simultaneously, and for the last five years not even one.
It does put my own self-loathing into perspective, though. Oh, don't get me wrong: I still feel my self-loathing is far more deserved (since I've always had multiple men loathe me as a troll, even when I was young and thin and still had a hairstyle). Maybe those guys were making themselves feel better by tearing me down. Maybe they were afraid of what the world holds for them when they become the thing they despise the most - namely me.
For what it's worth, guys, thanks for the thought that I'm not alone, even when I am.
While sitting here, wallowing in my own (let's face it) homemade self-pity, I have happened upon at least two guys - both my fellow bloggers - who, in some ways, have it worse than me, despite being everything I'm not. Why? But more to the point: WHY???
Because self-loathing is as prevalent on this planet as the stench of nitrogen, that's why. It seems that everybody has to feel bad for themselves or else the entire economy will collapse. Western Civilisation, after all, is based on consumerism. Oh, and Christian hatred.
Now I get why I have to feel bad for myself. After all, I am nominally homo despite being a) too old to be gay (which ends at age 24), b) too fat to be gay (damn my double digit BMI), and c) ugly (the gay cardinal sin) due to a minor birth defect which makes my mouth look like I've had a stroke - which is not a good look to begin with, and an even worse look on a giant Charlie Brown head.
Even if I should occasionally come up with a half-ways decent day (typically by accident), there's always some mirror and/or loudmouthed bitch ready to remind me why my self-esteem (and only mine) is verboten. For this reason, I tend to keep the good moods well-concealed behind a facade of bitterness and cynicism which is utterly rococo.
These guys are Library Muscle Guy and to an even greater extent Gay Canuck in the Capital. Now, I'm not denigrating anyone's legitimate right to have issues, or to be unhappy. After all, people are abused, told they're worthless, and generally spat upon every day of their lives - gay men especially - so some of it's bound to sink in.
I like these guys, despite the fact that if they were standing in front of me I'd not only refuse to talk to them but probably run screaming from their presence. I like that they are, like I am, using their blogs to get to the bottom of their yuck. I mean, how can you not admire that? If only from afar.
I guess it's just that I have nothing in common with them, despite our similarities. Reading their work, though, forces me to empathize, which is more than a little confusing. How, after all, can I empathize with a guy who can't choose which of the many men who are hot for him to go out with? To the best of my knowledge, I've never even had two guys who liked me simultaneously, and for the last five years not even one.
It does put my own self-loathing into perspective, though. Oh, don't get me wrong: I still feel my self-loathing is far more deserved (since I've always had multiple men loathe me as a troll, even when I was young and thin and still had a hairstyle). Maybe those guys were making themselves feel better by tearing me down. Maybe they were afraid of what the world holds for them when they become the thing they despise the most - namely me.
For what it's worth, guys, thanks for the thought that I'm not alone, even when I am.
A Change Is As Good As A Rest
The more I think about it, the more I think the problem is Vancouver.
I mean, every time I try to reach out here I get smacked down, which tends to make me reticent to reach out again, and so on. The birth of a vicious cycle...
So maybe a clean slate is in order.
I've already chosen the place and the time, so that's the hardest part sorted. Now it remains only to pay for it all. Saving money has never been my strong point, but it can be done provided I'm motivated enough.
And who knows? Maybe with my focus diverted towards moving I'll calm down and actually meet someone locally. Either way, it's nice to be able to put some momentum into a life that hasn't been going anywhere for years.
I mean, every time I try to reach out here I get smacked down, which tends to make me reticent to reach out again, and so on. The birth of a vicious cycle...
So maybe a clean slate is in order.
I've already chosen the place and the time, so that's the hardest part sorted. Now it remains only to pay for it all. Saving money has never been my strong point, but it can be done provided I'm motivated enough.
And who knows? Maybe with my focus diverted towards moving I'll calm down and actually meet someone locally. Either way, it's nice to be able to put some momentum into a life that hasn't been going anywhere for years.
Monday, August 6, 2007
No Longer Gay
The word "gay" implies alot of things. It suggests, for a man, an attraction to men. It must therefore suggest being attractive to men.
Yet another Pride Day has come and gone, and yet another humiliating bout of invisibility. There in that sea of diverse faces and diverse physiques and all I got was a smile from one guy who was holding hands with another guy. One unavailable guy out of what? A hundred thousand? Wow, I must be hot.
I give up. There's no point in trying to appeal for someone willing to overlook the physical - it ain't gonna happen. Especially not when, in my case, "the physical" looks like me. I realise that attraction is subjective, and that anyone can be attractive to someone. Which doesn't explain how I could be so unattractive to everyone.
I'm just lucky, I guess, to have the gay male friends I do have, because they have the best chance to understand what I'm going through. Only none of them quite do, given how much more popular than me they've always been. Besides which, they're mostly all in relationships. They've found theirs. I'm tired of looking for mine, especially since he doesn't exist.
This leaves me in a very strange place. Straight people I don't trust, gay men despise me... Which means more solitude than I know how to handle, and a slow, lingering death brought about by an acute lack of affection.
It's gonna be a great rest of my life, I can tell.
Yet another Pride Day has come and gone, and yet another humiliating bout of invisibility. There in that sea of diverse faces and diverse physiques and all I got was a smile from one guy who was holding hands with another guy. One unavailable guy out of what? A hundred thousand? Wow, I must be hot.
I give up. There's no point in trying to appeal for someone willing to overlook the physical - it ain't gonna happen. Especially not when, in my case, "the physical" looks like me. I realise that attraction is subjective, and that anyone can be attractive to someone. Which doesn't explain how I could be so unattractive to everyone.
I'm just lucky, I guess, to have the gay male friends I do have, because they have the best chance to understand what I'm going through. Only none of them quite do, given how much more popular than me they've always been. Besides which, they're mostly all in relationships. They've found theirs. I'm tired of looking for mine, especially since he doesn't exist.
This leaves me in a very strange place. Straight people I don't trust, gay men despise me... Which means more solitude than I know how to handle, and a slow, lingering death brought about by an acute lack of affection.
It's gonna be a great rest of my life, I can tell.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
I Saw You: A Summer Dream
On days when the world is ugly, there's no shock quite like the appearance of a beauty.
So on days when the world is beautiful, as it was this past Saturday, an apparition as delightfully solid as this one is just the extra egg in life's rich pudding.
I was photographing the Summer Dream Literary Arts Festival (not very successfully, I might add, given the gloomy skies and rain) when very early on I noticed this guy. Aside from the obvious, there was something in the way he watched each performer which betokened a being as beautiful inside as out.
Naturally, I was scared to death of him.
There is an annoying little subroutine trapped in my cortex that tells me to run like the wind away from men like this. Try as I might that little snippet of code continues to elude me, and as it does so it manages to disrupt even a brain as prodigious as mine. I think of it as an elephant being brought down by a mosquito.
I kept hoping that, having heard him speak, the spell might be broken. Until, that is, he got up on stage and read a few of his poems in a voice as sweet and smoky as maple-cured bacon. Then came the hope that perhaps he might be less impressive up close, a phenomenon known by the technical name of "Long Distance Misake" or LDM.
Alas, the closer I got the hotter he burned. At one point he was within five feet of me, and though I couldn't bring myself to talk to him (or face him at better than a 45-degree angle) I still felt like I needed sunscreen on that side. Of course, by that time I was blushing so hard I wouldn't have noticed a sunburn. In fact, I might have welcomed it as a pleasant alternative to death by embarassment.
Normally, that would have been it: a few nervous minutes talking about God-knows-what to the nearest person that wasn't him, followed by an afternoon of studious avoidance, which I could do professionally. In this case the nearest person was a total stranger, and despite my best efforts, at least a dozen times in the next four hours I would casually turn and find myself standing next to him.
Turns out something else I'm very good at is disguising shock.
Not helping matters any was the fact that I was surrounded by straight women, all of whom found my crush very endearing. To the point of having to be begged not to dragged over and introduced to him, which, given the circumstances, would not have been very endearing, either of them or me. It must be all those fairy tales girls are raised on, but they cannot resist one of those old "Troll and Prince live happily ever after" stories.
Any more, I guess, than I can.
All I know is, his name is C. J., and it's my most fervent wish that I never see him again.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
The New Portrait
Earlier this year, when trying to take a new portrait of myself, I took more than 300 frames before I'd admit defeat. When I finally did, it was the kind of defeat that generally involves casualties, the ceding of hard-won land, and hari-kiri.
I figured I'd never take another good picture again. Looking the way I do, surely there couldn't be more than twelve or fifteen good pictures in me for my whole life. Currently, I'm in possession of about nine.
It took Mr. Barr about five frames to nail the picture you see attached to my profile here. And he's not even a photographer. I mean, I hadda show him how to hold the camera and everything.
Because he didn't have a grip (hee hee) there's a slight blur; even this error served to camouflage my enormous pores. Nevertheless, the shot is good. As soon as I saw it I called a halt to the photo shoot.
Partly, I was just so excited to see something usable I didn't tempt Fate by being greedy. Plus the light was failing faster than my resolve. I was relieved, and more than a bit gobsmacked, by the result.
Of course, it is a very good likeness, inasmuch as it was posed for maximum effect.
For one thing, it's not face on. For another, the light was just right - bright shade. Although I tweaked it a bit in iPhoto I didn't airbrush anything out or resort to any such high-tech trickery. I was just lucky I guess that when the shutter opened I was sucking in what needed to be sucked in and sticking out what needed to be stuck out.
Of course, they say nobody likes their own photographs, or the sound of their own voice, or to watch themselves on film. Why so many people become actors and singers I'll never know. I would already be famous today if I knew how they did it.
As it is, the time has come to increase the scope of my activities. Which means more photographs of myself, having to listen to and watch myself over and over while editing. Oh goody...
I figured I'd never take another good picture again. Looking the way I do, surely there couldn't be more than twelve or fifteen good pictures in me for my whole life. Currently, I'm in possession of about nine.
It took Mr. Barr about five frames to nail the picture you see attached to my profile here. And he's not even a photographer. I mean, I hadda show him how to hold the camera and everything.
Because he didn't have a grip (hee hee) there's a slight blur; even this error served to camouflage my enormous pores. Nevertheless, the shot is good. As soon as I saw it I called a halt to the photo shoot.
Partly, I was just so excited to see something usable I didn't tempt Fate by being greedy. Plus the light was failing faster than my resolve. I was relieved, and more than a bit gobsmacked, by the result.
Of course, it is a very good likeness, inasmuch as it was posed for maximum effect.
For one thing, it's not face on. For another, the light was just right - bright shade. Although I tweaked it a bit in iPhoto I didn't airbrush anything out or resort to any such high-tech trickery. I was just lucky I guess that when the shutter opened I was sucking in what needed to be sucked in and sticking out what needed to be stuck out.
Of course, they say nobody likes their own photographs, or the sound of their own voice, or to watch themselves on film. Why so many people become actors and singers I'll never know. I would already be famous today if I knew how they did it.
As it is, the time has come to increase the scope of my activities. Which means more photographs of myself, having to listen to and watch myself over and over while editing. Oh goody...
Triggers (And How Not To Pull Them)
Okay, so today I had startling new proof regarding how closely tied my self-worth is to such things as hunger and fatigue.
I was both hungry and tired and I wanted to die.
Okay, so no great revelations, maybe. But what a powerful thing it is when confronting these feelings; rather than giving into them, being able to acknowledge that they are caused by factors as simple as hunger and then ignoring them until such time as I can eat something.
Of course, having eaten and had a bit of a rest, I can't truthfully say that all the bad feelings have left me. But they are more manageable.
I was both hungry and tired and I wanted to die.
Okay, so no great revelations, maybe. But what a powerful thing it is when confronting these feelings; rather than giving into them, being able to acknowledge that they are caused by factors as simple as hunger and then ignoring them until such time as I can eat something.
Of course, having eaten and had a bit of a rest, I can't truthfully say that all the bad feelings have left me. But they are more manageable.
10 Ways To Heal Spiritually From A Breakup
by Holly Lebowitz Rossi
Tip #10: Begin Again
At some point after your breakup, you will be ready to re-enter the dating scene. Watch your emotions carefully, and your intuition will tell you when you are ready to let go of your past relationship for good and open yourself up to the possibility of finding love again. When you make that decision, you'll be ready to head out-or online-with a renewed and refreshed spirit.
Tip #9: Believe in Yourself
Breakups aren't great for the self-esteem. If you did the breaking up, you might feel like a callous jerk. If you were dumped, you might feel un-loveable. Sit down in a quiet place with your journal or a piece of paper and write yourself reminders of what you like about yourself. That's not to say there aren't lessons to be learned from every breakup, but you should come away feeling like the good and special person that you truly are.
Tip #8: Take Care of Yourself
The stress of a breakup can leave your body feeling fragile and upset. Tend to your physical well-being to restore your feelings of self-worth, confidence, and attractiveness. Start a satisfying new workout program, cook simple, healthy meals, or treat yourself to a soothing aromatherapy massage to reconnect with your inner beauty.
Tip #7: Don't Be Afraid of Tears
Not to put too fine a point on it, but breaking up is hard to do. Crying is allowed, and so are anger, resentment, and fear about the future. Give yourself permission to fully feel the pain of the loss, because only when you are honest with yourself about your feelings can you begin the healing process.
Tip #6: Love Your Life
No matter how bleak your life might feel after a breakup, there have to be some positive aspects that you're not questioning or struggling with. Think about what you love about your life -- it can be a meaningful job, a group of supportive, funny friends, a loving family, a comfortable home, anything that simply makes you happy. Make a "gratitude list" and keep it on your night-table or somewhere else nearby so you can look at it instead of glancing wistfully at pictures of you and your ex.
Tip #5: Relish Your Solitude
Being on your own is intimidating at times, but it is also a spiritual gift. Many forms of meditation are practiced in solitude, and practices from yoga to tai chi can also be done solo. Create a space in your home that feels like a sanctuary to you. This will allow you to infuse your alone time with spirituality and remind you of the pleasure of your own company.
Tip #4: Try Something New
"Starting over" is a scary phrase associated with the aftermath of a breakup, but it can also be an exciting concept. Take a class to help you learn a new skill or hobby, learn a new language, or consider a new career direction. Trying something new is a way to symbolically demonstrate to yourself that the world is a big place, and new opportunities in life-and love-are always available.
Tip #3: Write it Out
After a breakup, the heart and soul often feel overwhelmed with emotions and memories. Pouring your anger, hurt, confusion, sadness, regret, or even relief or apology into a heartfelt letter to your ex is a great first step toward healing yourself of these feelings. Then, make a ritual of getting rid of the letter instead of sending it. Either put it in a special private box, tuck it into a journal, or toss it into a crackling fire.
Tip #2: Clean Up the Mess
Cleaning house can be a spiritual metaphor for inner cleansing. When you've just endured a breakup, that process becomes even more meaningful as you gather up your ex's clothes, books, music, and other stuff. It might be painful to face the memories that are attached to those things, but once they're out the door -- either in the mail or the dumpster, as the case may be -- you'll be surprised at the refreshing sense of soul-cleanliness that you feel.
Tip #1: Don't Blame God
It's tempting when you have lost a love-even if you were the instigator of the breakup-to channel feelings of loneliness and abandonment toward the heavens, blaming God for bringing you together as a couple only to have the relationship fall apart. In the period just after the breakup, though, try to turn toward God or your higher power for support and direction, rather than turning away from your spiritual self.
[S O U R C E]
Tip #10: Begin Again
At some point after your breakup, you will be ready to re-enter the dating scene. Watch your emotions carefully, and your intuition will tell you when you are ready to let go of your past relationship for good and open yourself up to the possibility of finding love again. When you make that decision, you'll be ready to head out-or online-with a renewed and refreshed spirit.
Tip #9: Believe in Yourself
Breakups aren't great for the self-esteem. If you did the breaking up, you might feel like a callous jerk. If you were dumped, you might feel un-loveable. Sit down in a quiet place with your journal or a piece of paper and write yourself reminders of what you like about yourself. That's not to say there aren't lessons to be learned from every breakup, but you should come away feeling like the good and special person that you truly are.
Tip #8: Take Care of Yourself
The stress of a breakup can leave your body feeling fragile and upset. Tend to your physical well-being to restore your feelings of self-worth, confidence, and attractiveness. Start a satisfying new workout program, cook simple, healthy meals, or treat yourself to a soothing aromatherapy massage to reconnect with your inner beauty.
Tip #7: Don't Be Afraid of Tears
Not to put too fine a point on it, but breaking up is hard to do. Crying is allowed, and so are anger, resentment, and fear about the future. Give yourself permission to fully feel the pain of the loss, because only when you are honest with yourself about your feelings can you begin the healing process.
Tip #6: Love Your Life
No matter how bleak your life might feel after a breakup, there have to be some positive aspects that you're not questioning or struggling with. Think about what you love about your life -- it can be a meaningful job, a group of supportive, funny friends, a loving family, a comfortable home, anything that simply makes you happy. Make a "gratitude list" and keep it on your night-table or somewhere else nearby so you can look at it instead of glancing wistfully at pictures of you and your ex.
Tip #5: Relish Your Solitude
Being on your own is intimidating at times, but it is also a spiritual gift. Many forms of meditation are practiced in solitude, and practices from yoga to tai chi can also be done solo. Create a space in your home that feels like a sanctuary to you. This will allow you to infuse your alone time with spirituality and remind you of the pleasure of your own company.
Tip #4: Try Something New
"Starting over" is a scary phrase associated with the aftermath of a breakup, but it can also be an exciting concept. Take a class to help you learn a new skill or hobby, learn a new language, or consider a new career direction. Trying something new is a way to symbolically demonstrate to yourself that the world is a big place, and new opportunities in life-and love-are always available.
Tip #3: Write it Out
After a breakup, the heart and soul often feel overwhelmed with emotions and memories. Pouring your anger, hurt, confusion, sadness, regret, or even relief or apology into a heartfelt letter to your ex is a great first step toward healing yourself of these feelings. Then, make a ritual of getting rid of the letter instead of sending it. Either put it in a special private box, tuck it into a journal, or toss it into a crackling fire.
Tip #2: Clean Up the Mess
Cleaning house can be a spiritual metaphor for inner cleansing. When you've just endured a breakup, that process becomes even more meaningful as you gather up your ex's clothes, books, music, and other stuff. It might be painful to face the memories that are attached to those things, but once they're out the door -- either in the mail or the dumpster, as the case may be -- you'll be surprised at the refreshing sense of soul-cleanliness that you feel.
Tip #1: Don't Blame God
It's tempting when you have lost a love-even if you were the instigator of the breakup-to channel feelings of loneliness and abandonment toward the heavens, blaming God for bringing you together as a couple only to have the relationship fall apart. In the period just after the breakup, though, try to turn toward God or your higher power for support and direction, rather than turning away from your spiritual self.
[S O U R C E]
Monday, July 9, 2007
Already I Sense A Pattern
I suppose I could have chosen to be all Old School about it and kept a regular diary - you know, a book filled with paper that I hid away when not using so no one could read it. But I ask you: where's the fun in that? Besides which, do you have any idea how big the Internet is? This stuff is safer here than in the top drawer of my dresser, and that's a fact.
Nevertheless, I have chosen to keep a blog, so that something in it might some day help another poor soul in their time of need, even if it's the calming notion that somewhere there's someone more fucked up than them. In keeping these posts and documenting my various upheavals, it may be possible to detect flawed patterns of behaviour, and in detecting, arrest them.
See, it's like this. About ten to twelve days out of every two weeks I'm the King of the World. I have the life I want (obviously, or I'd change it) and I'm living the dream, baby. So maybe I'd like a maid and a masseuse and the occasional week in Manhattan, but on the whole, things are good. After all, who wants perfection if it can't be improved upon?
The problem is that other two to four days, when I'm feeling vulnerable and a little lonely. That's when I find myself thinking it would be nice to have someone special in my life, if only for a half an hour. The degree to which it bothers me that I don't will vary, obviously. Sometimes it makes me wistful, other times it enrages me. Neither of these is exactly my best colour.
Why it's like this obviously has something to do with the moon (two week cycles, duh), so I've begun charting both my moods and the phases of the moon through Facebook to test this theory. What varies, and therefore worries me more, is the quality of my reaction in each case. Another factor is blood sugar, which definitely affects my mood, and is therefore a crucial link in understanding why I'm forever reacting to more or less the same situation in a different way each time.
The only consistent is that old bugaboo: fairness, or rather, the presumed lack of it. I feel it isn't fair that I can't get gay men to be civil to me. Then again, that may be because it's not. But since when did fairness have anything to do with anything? Third grade? When you're a naive idealist like me, it can be hard to accept the cynical view that life often isn't fair.
Their not liking me does not give me the permission to be such a trench mouth bitch to or about them, and yet I certainly have been. For all I know, their calling me a fat troll is some ironic token of affection. You never know with these kids today; the whole thing could just be one big misunderstanding. Maybe fat troll is, like, all "street" for Daddy Muffin or something.
No matter which way you look at it, though, "an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind". Gee, I wish I'd said that.
Somewhere along the line I've picked up the lie that every person on the planet thinks less of me because I can't get a date. Which is crazy, not to mention extreme. I mean, just because a bunch of people (myself included) think that way doesn't mean everyone does, and I should take care to make friends with the ones who don't. To a large extent I think I've done this.
But I also need to learn to give myself the same break I expect from others. Obviously, I don't devalue anyone but myself for not being able to get a date. No one. So why do I do it to myself? I have no idea. Remember, this post was about patterns. Let's save the epiphanies for a post about flashes of insight, or fucking miracles, or some such.
For the first time in a long time I feel myself spiralling upwards where this issue is concerned, instead of down, which ought to assuage those friends whose patience I've tested. As important as it is for me to expose my disordered thoughts to the withering light of reason, any fresh perspective on them is ever due to Mr. Barr and Mr. Davey and especially Mr. Gagne.
Understanding the pattern of emotions and the rhythm of feelings (not to mention learning how to control them) may help increase the velocity of this upward spiral until such time as this issue is no longer an issue.
I know, I know... As patterns go, I'd been hoping for the tidy efficiency of plaid, myself; instead, I've ended up with a truly stomach-churning paisley. Still, even the worst pattern is better than the best chaos. Baby steps, I keep reminding myself, baby steps...
Nevertheless, I have chosen to keep a blog, so that something in it might some day help another poor soul in their time of need, even if it's the calming notion that somewhere there's someone more fucked up than them. In keeping these posts and documenting my various upheavals, it may be possible to detect flawed patterns of behaviour, and in detecting, arrest them.
See, it's like this. About ten to twelve days out of every two weeks I'm the King of the World. I have the life I want (obviously, or I'd change it) and I'm living the dream, baby. So maybe I'd like a maid and a masseuse and the occasional week in Manhattan, but on the whole, things are good. After all, who wants perfection if it can't be improved upon?
The problem is that other two to four days, when I'm feeling vulnerable and a little lonely. That's when I find myself thinking it would be nice to have someone special in my life, if only for a half an hour. The degree to which it bothers me that I don't will vary, obviously. Sometimes it makes me wistful, other times it enrages me. Neither of these is exactly my best colour.
Why it's like this obviously has something to do with the moon (two week cycles, duh), so I've begun charting both my moods and the phases of the moon through Facebook to test this theory. What varies, and therefore worries me more, is the quality of my reaction in each case. Another factor is blood sugar, which definitely affects my mood, and is therefore a crucial link in understanding why I'm forever reacting to more or less the same situation in a different way each time.
The only consistent is that old bugaboo: fairness, or rather, the presumed lack of it. I feel it isn't fair that I can't get gay men to be civil to me. Then again, that may be because it's not. But since when did fairness have anything to do with anything? Third grade? When you're a naive idealist like me, it can be hard to accept the cynical view that life often isn't fair.
Their not liking me does not give me the permission to be such a trench mouth bitch to or about them, and yet I certainly have been. For all I know, their calling me a fat troll is some ironic token of affection. You never know with these kids today; the whole thing could just be one big misunderstanding. Maybe fat troll is, like, all "street" for Daddy Muffin or something.
No matter which way you look at it, though, "an eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind". Gee, I wish I'd said that.
Somewhere along the line I've picked up the lie that every person on the planet thinks less of me because I can't get a date. Which is crazy, not to mention extreme. I mean, just because a bunch of people (myself included) think that way doesn't mean everyone does, and I should take care to make friends with the ones who don't. To a large extent I think I've done this.
But I also need to learn to give myself the same break I expect from others. Obviously, I don't devalue anyone but myself for not being able to get a date. No one. So why do I do it to myself? I have no idea. Remember, this post was about patterns. Let's save the epiphanies for a post about flashes of insight, or fucking miracles, or some such.
For the first time in a long time I feel myself spiralling upwards where this issue is concerned, instead of down, which ought to assuage those friends whose patience I've tested. As important as it is for me to expose my disordered thoughts to the withering light of reason, any fresh perspective on them is ever due to Mr. Barr and Mr. Davey and especially Mr. Gagne.
Understanding the pattern of emotions and the rhythm of feelings (not to mention learning how to control them) may help increase the velocity of this upward spiral until such time as this issue is no longer an issue.
I know, I know... As patterns go, I'd been hoping for the tidy efficiency of plaid, myself; instead, I've ended up with a truly stomach-churning paisley. Still, even the worst pattern is better than the best chaos. Baby steps, I keep reminding myself, baby steps...
Out Of My League, Part Two
Not ten minutes after I posted the previous article I went back to check out the Russian's profile on Lovetastic; apparently it's been deleted. It seems he's a spammer, at least according to them. Lovetastic's automatic response was very contrite.
I'm still intrigued, though, so I'm going to keep writing to him.
It's a useful bit of masochism to continue corresponding with someone who is very possibly a con artist. I want to see what he does to keep my attention, and how he handles any objections I may have. I'm curious to see how a player reacts to being played.
I've already let him know that there are numerous mail-order bride scams from the city where he lives. I lied rather extravagantly when I said that such scams were well-known in this country, since they are so commonplace. He seemed both dismayed and ignorant of these, which naturally he would.
He also has the sort of email address a spammer might have, a weird clump of letters that doesn't yield any results when translated by software. I may need to get Mr. Barr to try translating it as well, since his built-in software is far superior to anything found on CD-ROM.
I've sent the Russian a link to my blog, as well, thinking maybe I can track him that way. There's still the faintest glimmer that he could be legit, although, let's face it, it's not likely. In case he is, I don't want to cut loose some lonely kid stuck in some Russian dirthole.
I feel my reactions to the situation are very telling. Of course, the initial reaction - why would a guy like that want to get to know someone like me - is entirely in keeping with my good old self-loathing self. But my unwillingness to be duped speaks volumes about some possibly healthy self-esteem that must have sneaked into my system by accident somehow, either by aliens or else virally (from reading O magazine, for instance).
Because I developed a vigorous cynicism early in life, I may in fact have done myself out of some positive experiences in the name of self-preservation. Still, I'm not about to go all foolish whether approached by a virtual hot guy or a real one.
Some years back there was a con artist working the bars of Davie Street. The guy was a real model type, and he'd targeted guys in their fifties, shy types, who probably couldn't believe that such a prince would be interested in them. Following the usual modus operandi he'd take them back to the dupe's place, drug 'em or slug 'em, then proceed to rob them blind.
While I felt bad about the guys this happened to, I knew for sure that such a thing would never happen to me. It was the same thing when the "I Love You" virus was going around. In either case, I'd never believe such things if they crossed my path.
I'm still intrigued, though, so I'm going to keep writing to him.
It's a useful bit of masochism to continue corresponding with someone who is very possibly a con artist. I want to see what he does to keep my attention, and how he handles any objections I may have. I'm curious to see how a player reacts to being played.
I've already let him know that there are numerous mail-order bride scams from the city where he lives. I lied rather extravagantly when I said that such scams were well-known in this country, since they are so commonplace. He seemed both dismayed and ignorant of these, which naturally he would.
He also has the sort of email address a spammer might have, a weird clump of letters that doesn't yield any results when translated by software. I may need to get Mr. Barr to try translating it as well, since his built-in software is far superior to anything found on CD-ROM.
I've sent the Russian a link to my blog, as well, thinking maybe I can track him that way. There's still the faintest glimmer that he could be legit, although, let's face it, it's not likely. In case he is, I don't want to cut loose some lonely kid stuck in some Russian dirthole.
I feel my reactions to the situation are very telling. Of course, the initial reaction - why would a guy like that want to get to know someone like me - is entirely in keeping with my good old self-loathing self. But my unwillingness to be duped speaks volumes about some possibly healthy self-esteem that must have sneaked into my system by accident somehow, either by aliens or else virally (from reading O magazine, for instance).
Because I developed a vigorous cynicism early in life, I may in fact have done myself out of some positive experiences in the name of self-preservation. Still, I'm not about to go all foolish whether approached by a virtual hot guy or a real one.
Some years back there was a con artist working the bars of Davie Street. The guy was a real model type, and he'd targeted guys in their fifties, shy types, who probably couldn't believe that such a prince would be interested in them. Following the usual modus operandi he'd take them back to the dupe's place, drug 'em or slug 'em, then proceed to rob them blind.
While I felt bad about the guys this happened to, I knew for sure that such a thing would never happen to me. It was the same thing when the "I Love You" virus was going around. In either case, I'd never believe such things if they crossed my path.
Sunday, July 8, 2007
Out Of My League
It's funny that I was so recently engaged in discussion over who is or isn't "out of my league" with Gay Canuck in the Capital, as well as another blogger named Dirk Mancuso, whose blog has such a long name I seldom deign to use it.
Funny because I was recently approached by someone who isn't so much out of my league as an entirely different species from me.
Naturally, I have every reason to doubt his sincerity. The Internet is packed to the rafters with liars, cheats, and scoundrels of all kinds (much like Parliament). Unlike Parliament, though, on the Internet there aren't any rules.
This young man is Russian, and judging by his pictures, a tidy little bundle of hunk at that. He contacted me via Lovetastic, which is the only dating-type profile I have up anymore.
Now Lovetastic (as great as it is) isn't exactly Yahoo personals, which is probably why I've left that profile up for as long as I have. It's a low-key site, catered to men looking for quality over quantity.
I figure if this Russian found me there he must have been looking for awhile.
So why do I doubt his sincerity? I can believe there are gay men in Russia, and I can believe they may even be lovelorn. So why come looking for me? Unless, of course, he wants something.
I'm afraid I'm so shattered by my dating experience that I'll never believe another man's sincerity again. While I've pretty well managed to convince myself that I'll be alone for the rest of my life, every couple of weeks my facade develops a crack.
This guy found that crack and has been stuffing dynamite in it.
What to do, what to do...
Funny because I was recently approached by someone who isn't so much out of my league as an entirely different species from me.
Naturally, I have every reason to doubt his sincerity. The Internet is packed to the rafters with liars, cheats, and scoundrels of all kinds (much like Parliament). Unlike Parliament, though, on the Internet there aren't any rules.
This young man is Russian, and judging by his pictures, a tidy little bundle of hunk at that. He contacted me via Lovetastic, which is the only dating-type profile I have up anymore.
Now Lovetastic (as great as it is) isn't exactly Yahoo personals, which is probably why I've left that profile up for as long as I have. It's a low-key site, catered to men looking for quality over quantity.
I figure if this Russian found me there he must have been looking for awhile.
So why do I doubt his sincerity? I can believe there are gay men in Russia, and I can believe they may even be lovelorn. So why come looking for me? Unless, of course, he wants something.
I'm afraid I'm so shattered by my dating experience that I'll never believe another man's sincerity again. While I've pretty well managed to convince myself that I'll be alone for the rest of my life, every couple of weeks my facade develops a crack.
This guy found that crack and has been stuffing dynamite in it.
What to do, what to do...
Saturday, July 7, 2007
Blogger's Blues
I realise it's only been two days since I last got a comment on the Pop Culture Institute, but two days is a long time in bloggerland.
Obviously I'm not blogging for the comments; I'm blogging because I have to/want to/need to write, but the comments are like tips. If I'm not getting any comments then I feel like I'm not doing a good job.
I really kiss ass over there. Since I have no actual celebrities being interviewed, and no big name talent working for me, and no advertisers to appease, my entire business is pleasing the people who read me. Whatever they comment on, you can bet that subject matter goes straight to the top of my priorities list.
I consider it good practice for my eventual job in magazine publishing, whatever that may be, whether it's as a staff writer, freelancer, or editor. Besides which, it's just good business practice, especially when the product is as ephemeral as a blog, or as nebulous as my subject matter.
It's easy to become disheartened, especially if you're me. All my life it feels as though I've watched other people get second chances, and big breaks, and opportunities for which I have never and will never be eligible. Just once I'd like to not have to scrounge for praise, or fight for survival.
I realise that it's wrong to admit to seeking approval, but honesty means more to me than doing the so-called right thing.
Still, slow and steady wins the race, and that's not just a cliche; around here it's a business model. I suppose I'll be fine once I get home, enjoy some nice meds, and have supper. That usually cheers me up.
In the meantime, just let me sulk and scheme and eventually I'll figure out something that'll get me a comment or two.
Obviously I'm not blogging for the comments; I'm blogging because I have to/want to/need to write, but the comments are like tips. If I'm not getting any comments then I feel like I'm not doing a good job.
I really kiss ass over there. Since I have no actual celebrities being interviewed, and no big name talent working for me, and no advertisers to appease, my entire business is pleasing the people who read me. Whatever they comment on, you can bet that subject matter goes straight to the top of my priorities list.
I consider it good practice for my eventual job in magazine publishing, whatever that may be, whether it's as a staff writer, freelancer, or editor. Besides which, it's just good business practice, especially when the product is as ephemeral as a blog, or as nebulous as my subject matter.
It's easy to become disheartened, especially if you're me. All my life it feels as though I've watched other people get second chances, and big breaks, and opportunities for which I have never and will never be eligible. Just once I'd like to not have to scrounge for praise, or fight for survival.
I realise that it's wrong to admit to seeking approval, but honesty means more to me than doing the so-called right thing.
Still, slow and steady wins the race, and that's not just a cliche; around here it's a business model. I suppose I'll be fine once I get home, enjoy some nice meds, and have supper. That usually cheers me up.
In the meantime, just let me sulk and scheme and eventually I'll figure out something that'll get me a comment or two.
Making Amends
Recently I committed a grievous bloggerly sin: I went "off" on a fellow blogger. I engaged my mouth before my empathy was online. I nearly had to reroute my encryptions and my inertial dampers still aren't right.
Oh yeah... It was bad.
So I recently left another comment on Gay Canuck in the Capital loaded with healthy, satisfying contrition.
You see, there are two emotions which rule my heart and mind. One is frustration and the other is jealousy. If ever those two should become entangled - look out!
That's what happened.
I am no expert on the ways of hot guys; I simply haven't had adequate access to study them in their native habitat. 99% of the time, the closest I ever get to hot guys is in porn. I do have a couple of friends who qualify as hot (in that they fit the societal mould of what a hot man is) and even them I have to stand back and try conversing through a hole in a sheet of lead.
So I'm not really qualified to make judgements. But when a guy I have no chance with (a guy who wouldn't ever talk to me if we met in the real world, I am certain) makes some kind of crazy statement like "Gee I wish I could meet someone", that gets my frustration going.
When he continues to list all the guys who hit on him that day, well, here's where the jealousy takes over.
Me, I can't count how many guys hit on me in a day. Mainly because I'm lousy at fractions, negative numbers, and whatever kind of algebra it would take for me to calculate a number that low.
What I failed to convey was that at least he has the opportunity to meet someone, which I do not. And yes, I could find my true love in one chance meeting and be raiding the registry at Pottery Barn while he's still schlepping from bar to bar with no luck, but let's face it: it's a numbers game, and I simply don't have the numbers he does.
He plays the Lotto, so he's far more likely to win before I do.
Still, that's no reason for me to be rude. I'm finding that, as I wage what feels like a neverending battle against myself, simple things like manners help me to make greater headway than therapy or even drugs. If someone says I look nice I say thank you. I don't believe them, but neither do I reject their compliment.
As nice as he was to me, his commenters were even more so. There were the usual reminders to remember empathy, and that just because someone is smoking hot doesn't mean they're happy...
Gee, I wish some of them lived in Vancouver.
Oh yeah... It was bad.
So I recently left another comment on Gay Canuck in the Capital loaded with healthy, satisfying contrition.
You see, there are two emotions which rule my heart and mind. One is frustration and the other is jealousy. If ever those two should become entangled - look out!
That's what happened.
I am no expert on the ways of hot guys; I simply haven't had adequate access to study them in their native habitat. 99% of the time, the closest I ever get to hot guys is in porn. I do have a couple of friends who qualify as hot (in that they fit the societal mould of what a hot man is) and even them I have to stand back and try conversing through a hole in a sheet of lead.
So I'm not really qualified to make judgements. But when a guy I have no chance with (a guy who wouldn't ever talk to me if we met in the real world, I am certain) makes some kind of crazy statement like "Gee I wish I could meet someone", that gets my frustration going.
When he continues to list all the guys who hit on him that day, well, here's where the jealousy takes over.
Me, I can't count how many guys hit on me in a day. Mainly because I'm lousy at fractions, negative numbers, and whatever kind of algebra it would take for me to calculate a number that low.
What I failed to convey was that at least he has the opportunity to meet someone, which I do not. And yes, I could find my true love in one chance meeting and be raiding the registry at Pottery Barn while he's still schlepping from bar to bar with no luck, but let's face it: it's a numbers game, and I simply don't have the numbers he does.
He plays the Lotto, so he's far more likely to win before I do.
Still, that's no reason for me to be rude. I'm finding that, as I wage what feels like a neverending battle against myself, simple things like manners help me to make greater headway than therapy or even drugs. If someone says I look nice I say thank you. I don't believe them, but neither do I reject their compliment.
As nice as he was to me, his commenters were even more so. There were the usual reminders to remember empathy, and that just because someone is smoking hot doesn't mean they're happy...
Gee, I wish some of them lived in Vancouver.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Off To A Good Start
Since removing all traces of self-loathing from the pages of the Pop Culture Institute at least meets with the approval of one Mr. Davey I am feeling especially virtuous today. I've been able to retain what is a valuable outlet for me in Self-Loathario (not to mention creating with that same outlet a means for possibly helping others), while at the same time bringing a new kind of professionalism to my already established brand. Win-win.
When it comes to talking about any issue, the main difficulty is just in doing it. For instance, one cannot talk about racism without, at least accidentally, being racist. Any reasonable, calm person who encounters such racism will address and correct it, just as any calm, reasonable person will see the error of their former ways and hopefully attempt to expunge that racism from their souls.
Unfortunately, very few calm, reasonable people are engaged in discussions of racism; either that, or very few reasonable, calm solutions to racism are sexy enough to be trumpeted all over the news. Especially when vilifying Michael Richards is so much more fun than getting at the real problem.
(Among the ranks of the professionally offended, actually solving any such problem means they'll be out of work. So they're the last place to look for solutions to anything.)
Well, self-loathing is the ultimate racism. One oppresses one's self. One is the bigot and the victim simultaneously, and so bears a double stigma. In order to disentangle one's self from the ganglian of disordered thinking responsible for self-loathing it's all gotta be out there. Otherwise, you might as well be untying macrame in the dark.
The only thing is, the mere mention of self-loathing makes a great many people very nervous.
I took a course on this very issue, offered by the Alphabet Soup Centre in Vancouver (GLTBQ). There were about a dozen people in the class: me, a couple of guys older than me, and nine smoking hot supermodel types who all felt they were ugly because they only had six dates the previous week, whereas they'd had seven the week before.
So of course, in the interest of giving each man in attendance their equal time I hadda sit there for a good hour and a half listening to twinks empathise with each other on how hard it is to be hot. Oh, and all the gym time, and how expensive undereye concealer is, and one of them got dumped because he got a cold, and on and on... All terrible, mind you, yet all preventable.
The course was two evenings, one week apart. And as long as those nights felt for me, imagine what a long week that must have been for Mr. Barr (who was my roommate at the time). He tried and tried to convince me that hot guys also have low self-esteem. Likewise, Mr. Gagne has talked until capable of a Smurf impression about why I should feel bad for hot guys.
All for naught.
I have more sympathy for Jeffrey Dahmer than I do for any hot guy. Yet I have friends like Ken and Terry and Jesse who are all total babes. Because they seem to like me I can just about empathise with them. When they say they can't meet anybody I tell them to make the first move. They have no idea how threatening their beauty is, nor do they have any sense of what bitches most hot guys are to guys who aren't. Because they're all good-looking, they think everyone is nice, since everyone but journalists and bloggers is nice to beautiful people.
As smart as they are, this is a no-brainer for me.
I have one thing wrong with my life: I'm not good-looking. It's affected everything I've ever done. I'm sure it's kept me from getting jobs, it's garnered me insults galore, and ensured that I stayed single and celibate so long I no longer have any idea how not to be. The last all-gay crowd I found myself in gave me a panic attack.
A lot of hot guys only have one thing going for them, their hotness. It fades, of course, or at least changes, and when it does where does that leave Mr. Hottie? Yet in the meantime, at least they had a bit of fun, didn't they?
So I guess during all those years I was getting called a troll at the Bear Night have paid off. Rather than spending five hours a day dragging my fat ass through some bar to find some guy to assuage my insecurities, I was reading. Their tricks are long gone and forgotten by now, but I still can remember all the books I've read.
There is a nightmare scenario running in my head now that someday this site will be inundated by really hella-hot guys who all hate themselves because they feel they should be hotter, even though for that to happen municipal fire codes would have to be rewritten. I have no idea if I'll be able to empathize, since their experience is so far outside my own there aren't even any reference points. Only the fact that it could be a learning experience for me pushes the monsters back under the bed.
My final insight came last night. I was hanging out with a friend, and we were talking about the various rites of passage men go through. He noted something which had never occurred to me before: I've done everything out of order. For instance, while most people experiment with drugs as teenagers, I never did until I was 30. He suggested that while your 20s and 30s are most people's most sexually active time, mine might be my 40s and 50s.
And so they might be. They might be indeed.
When it comes to talking about any issue, the main difficulty is just in doing it. For instance, one cannot talk about racism without, at least accidentally, being racist. Any reasonable, calm person who encounters such racism will address and correct it, just as any calm, reasonable person will see the error of their former ways and hopefully attempt to expunge that racism from their souls.
Unfortunately, very few calm, reasonable people are engaged in discussions of racism; either that, or very few reasonable, calm solutions to racism are sexy enough to be trumpeted all over the news. Especially when vilifying Michael Richards is so much more fun than getting at the real problem.
(Among the ranks of the professionally offended, actually solving any such problem means they'll be out of work. So they're the last place to look for solutions to anything.)
Well, self-loathing is the ultimate racism. One oppresses one's self. One is the bigot and the victim simultaneously, and so bears a double stigma. In order to disentangle one's self from the ganglian of disordered thinking responsible for self-loathing it's all gotta be out there. Otherwise, you might as well be untying macrame in the dark.
The only thing is, the mere mention of self-loathing makes a great many people very nervous.
I took a course on this very issue, offered by the Alphabet Soup Centre in Vancouver (GLTBQ). There were about a dozen people in the class: me, a couple of guys older than me, and nine smoking hot supermodel types who all felt they were ugly because they only had six dates the previous week, whereas they'd had seven the week before.
So of course, in the interest of giving each man in attendance their equal time I hadda sit there for a good hour and a half listening to twinks empathise with each other on how hard it is to be hot. Oh, and all the gym time, and how expensive undereye concealer is, and one of them got dumped because he got a cold, and on and on... All terrible, mind you, yet all preventable.
The course was two evenings, one week apart. And as long as those nights felt for me, imagine what a long week that must have been for Mr. Barr (who was my roommate at the time). He tried and tried to convince me that hot guys also have low self-esteem. Likewise, Mr. Gagne has talked until capable of a Smurf impression about why I should feel bad for hot guys.
All for naught.
I have more sympathy for Jeffrey Dahmer than I do for any hot guy. Yet I have friends like Ken and Terry and Jesse who are all total babes. Because they seem to like me I can just about empathise with them. When they say they can't meet anybody I tell them to make the first move. They have no idea how threatening their beauty is, nor do they have any sense of what bitches most hot guys are to guys who aren't. Because they're all good-looking, they think everyone is nice, since everyone but journalists and bloggers is nice to beautiful people.
As smart as they are, this is a no-brainer for me.
I have one thing wrong with my life: I'm not good-looking. It's affected everything I've ever done. I'm sure it's kept me from getting jobs, it's garnered me insults galore, and ensured that I stayed single and celibate so long I no longer have any idea how not to be. The last all-gay crowd I found myself in gave me a panic attack.
A lot of hot guys only have one thing going for them, their hotness. It fades, of course, or at least changes, and when it does where does that leave Mr. Hottie? Yet in the meantime, at least they had a bit of fun, didn't they?
So I guess during all those years I was getting called a troll at the Bear Night have paid off. Rather than spending five hours a day dragging my fat ass through some bar to find some guy to assuage my insecurities, I was reading. Their tricks are long gone and forgotten by now, but I still can remember all the books I've read.
There is a nightmare scenario running in my head now that someday this site will be inundated by really hella-hot guys who all hate themselves because they feel they should be hotter, even though for that to happen municipal fire codes would have to be rewritten. I have no idea if I'll be able to empathize, since their experience is so far outside my own there aren't even any reference points. Only the fact that it could be a learning experience for me pushes the monsters back under the bed.
My final insight came last night. I was hanging out with a friend, and we were talking about the various rites of passage men go through. He noted something which had never occurred to me before: I've done everything out of order. For instance, while most people experiment with drugs as teenagers, I never did until I was 30. He suggested that while your 20s and 30s are most people's most sexually active time, mine might be my 40s and 50s.
And so they might be. They might be indeed.
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Here We Do Things Differently
So, hopefully I've set it up so that readers can submit anonymous comments. Unlike in my other blog, I realise anonymity may essential here to get people to open up; also, the added step that comes with moderated comments could be off-putting to some, so I've eliminated that as well.
At the Pop Culture Institute I'm quite concerned about being flamed. Given the subject matter I deal with there, I consider that to be a legitimate concern. Here, being flamed will just prove my point, as well as possibly helping to generate some debate.
I am not a therapist, mind you, just a person with a massive amount of self-loathing, some of which I've been able to come to terms with via various methods, and the rest... Well, I'm working on that.
At the Pop Culture Institute I'm quite concerned about being flamed. Given the subject matter I deal with there, I consider that to be a legitimate concern. Here, being flamed will just prove my point, as well as possibly helping to generate some debate.
I am not a therapist, mind you, just a person with a massive amount of self-loathing, some of which I've been able to come to terms with via various methods, and the rest... Well, I'm working on that.
Trust Wikipedia
Okay, so often the spelling and the syntax are a little off. But my take on Wikipedia is this: it's as accurate as you want it to be. Besides that, enter almost anything and it'll have some opinion.
Guess what I just typed in? That's right: self-loathing.
The results were interesting, fairly thorough in terms of the groups it covers but not very in-depth in each one.
The page does, however, mention the criticism that will usually be drawn just by talking about a topic as controversial as this.
Guess what I just typed in? That's right: self-loathing.
The results were interesting, fairly thorough in terms of the groups it covers but not very in-depth in each one.
The page does, however, mention the criticism that will usually be drawn just by talking about a topic as controversial as this.
Welcome Welcome Welcome
Welcome to an entirely new web experience.
In my opinion self-loathing is as prevalent as air. Many people are in denial about this, but though their words say they commit no acts of self-loathing themselves, their actions often speak differently.
Well, I aim to put an end to all that. I realise that much of the world's economy rests on the simple fact of self-loathing. Junk food, cosmetics, and pharmaceuticals - to name just three - are all targeted directly at us, who lap it up by the gulletful.
Honestly, is a moisturiser going to help you feel better about yourself? Not any more than a bag of Dorito's or a Xanax. Not that these things won't temporarily improve your state of mind, but I'm talking about permanent solutions to problems which seem all too impossible to overcome.
Well, due to the runaway success of my other blog (the Pop Culture Institute) and due to the unsuitability of these kinds of posts on that site, I decided that, rather than discontinue the healthy process of coming to terms with being old, fat, and ugly, I would merely spin it off into its own little realm.
So here it is. A venue for those of you who feel you somehow don't measure up.
If I can do one thing to make this world a better place, it's to help the people on it break the cycle of self-loathing that ruins lives with terrifying alacrity.
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