I’ve made a conscious effort to cut back on my electronic media consumption. It makes me feel like a little kid, the fact that I’m trying to limit my own “screen time,” but I do think it’s become necessary for my mental health. My social isolation seems to make me particularly susceptible to the influence of the “flickering Cyclops,” as Sideshow Bob once called television (and, by extension, computer screens).
I think it warps my perception, and that has already been seriously warped by loneliness, anxiety and LSD (j/k). Years ago, I stopped wearing ear buds while working out at the gym. I noticed that listening to music or podcasts took me “out of the moment.” I wasn’t as “present.” (Sorry about the quotes. I’m still not totally comfortable using that terminology. It feels like New Age crap.)
It makes for a boring workout, but I quickly realized the real reason I’d been using the ear buds. They were a distraction from my loneliness. But the loneliness got too strong, no matter how much I repressed it. Using the ear buds started to make my head hurt, albeit only slightly, like mild sinus pressure. It’s a feeling of fullness, like I’m trying to stuff too much stimulation into my brain.
Gradually, I abandoned the ear buds almost completely, even when working monotonous temp jobs. I realized that facing my loneliness has become less painful than repressing it. I’ve also mostly switched from watching TV to listening to podcasts, and since then I’ve cut back on the podcasts in favor of going out.
I had to face the existential terror of wandering the Wasteland alone. (The Wasteland is my name for public space, which has been abandoned to fear, paranoia and anxiety, a silent stretch of barren desert devoid of meaningful socialization or personal interaction and other building blocks of a healthy society. But, then again, my perspective might be a bit slanted.)
I also opt for outdoor exercise like biking more often now. Being outside in the sweet sunshine is better for me than being in the gym with today’s biggest hits blaring and people generally ignoring each other. There’s some stress involved in biking on the city streets around Uptown, dodging cars and whatnot, but I’ve learned that stress can be beneficial. Most of it arises from my social anxiety. I’m less worried about getting run over and more worried about pissing off drivers.
My self-consciousness is coming back, which is actually more good than bad. I think I was just repressing it anyway. I don’t think I’d actually overcome it.
The self-consciousness is what kept me from taking more risks, being more social or going out in public more often. I felt like people were always watching and judging me. This is probably why getting on stage is relatively easy for me. At least on stage I know people are watching me, and I actually have a pretty good idea of what I’m supposed to do to gain their approval. Off stage, it’s anybody’s guess.
So now I’m more anxious in public again, but being out and about has also become more beneficial. There’s real risk in it now, which means the possibility of connection as well as rejection. Before, my heart was shut to everything, the good and the bad. Now I actually feel some hope of making friends and dating again.
It feels like I’m experiencing things firsthand rather than just watching them through someone else’s eyes, à
la Being John Malkovich. It was especially gratifying biking along the Greenway last week. My eyes/brain/heart could finally take in the joy of the sunlight and the awe of the tall buildings towering over me. I was back in the Real World.
There are many feelings and sense-memories that have triggered pain in me for a long time, so I blocked them out. But blocking them (what one of my therapists called “avoidance”) made the world unreal. Avoiding them turned me into a hermit. Either way, it just made me more miserable. Avoidance became an extremely maladaptive coping technique, and I had to learn to confront my anxieties rather than avoid them.
Now I have to disentangle my brain to remember what behavior will make me feel better and what behavior will make me feel worse. I’ve built up so many layers of detachment between me and my experience that it can be hard to tell. The detachment is so severe that, at this point, it’s more about reducing or eliminating pain than generating joy.
My experience of joy has been much less than my experience of pain for several years now, so it’s gonna take a while to rebuild my capacity for it.
I suppose it makes sense that I’m mainly just trying to diminish the amount of pain in my life. After all, the avoidance of pain is how I got here. Rather than pursuing joy, I avoided pain and risk, so clearly I’m more responsive to negative motivation than the positive kind. I suppose my brain is just giving me the stimuli it thinks I need.
At least I’ve dropped 25 lbs. during this crucible. I was hoping for that, although it has come at a steep price. If I had it to do over again, I would’ve kept the weight over the anxiety and depression/toxic brain shit/Black Bile Flood. (I think.)
I’m putting myself back in the world mentally. I’m once again a member of the Human Race, just as significant or insignificant as anyone else. I suppose taking myself out of the world is a form of solipsism, but it feels like reducing myself to a nonentity rather than setting myself up as God. Well, they’re probably just 2 sides of the same coin anyway.
Monday, August 13, 2018
Sunday, July 22, 2018
Musical Meds
I’m currently riding a rollercoaster of emotions. I’ve been playing “Musical Meds,” bouncing between medications for anxiety and depression, trying to find one that’ll work without bad side effects. It’s been rough. I stupidly decided to come off Paxil in March, because I didn’t think I needed meds anymore. It took 2 ½ months before I realized I still need meds. That’s how long it took for my anxiety to come back in full effect.
The Paxil had been very effective, obviously. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have felt comfortable coming off it. But I put on 20 lbs. soon after starting it, and my throat had a dry feeling that made eating or drinking anything with sugar somewhat unpleasant. I was willing to put up with those side effects for a year-and-a-half, but eventually I didn’t think it was necessary.
I knew there were risks in coming off Paxil, but what took me by surprise was the strength of the anxiety. It’s not like I was miserable when I started it. At the time, I was doing OK on Zoloft, but that didn’t seem to have much effect, so I figured coming off Paxil, at worse, would put me back in that “fair to middlin’” zone.
After I’d been off Paxil for a month or so, I felt fine and figured I was in the clear. But then the anxiety started creeping back in, until 2 days before my 2-year-old nephew Patrick (or “Paddy,” as I like to call him) came to visit, when it settled in for good. And it wasn’t that “fair to middlin’” anxiety. It was the hard stuff.
That’s just the kind of bad timing I’m known for. My parents and I would be taking care of my nephew for 10 days while my sister and brother-in-law were on vacation in Iceland. Those 10 days were pretty rough, which sucked because I took 9 days off from my temp job so I could hang out with Paddy and help my parents take care of him.
I felt like I was trapped in the house with my parents, a 2-year-old and all my issues from childhood. I got through it with the help of daily meditation and escapes to Uptown in the afternoon after putting him down for his nap.
Ya know, I may not be good at Life, but I’m good at singing my nephew to sleep, and that’s gotta count for something.
Per my sister’s instructions, I would sit down with him in my lap and tell him a story I made up. (Books had become too stimulating for him.) The story was often about a boy named Patrick who climbs a rainbow to a magical city in the clouds. That was after I decided to stop just giving him a synopsis of The Hobbit with his name in place of Bilbo’s.
I figured he deserved better than that. He deserved an original story, and, as a writer, I should be able to give him one. I doubt Patrick and the Rainbow will ever take its place alongside The Hobbit as one of the classics of children’s literature, but I think I was able to refine it with repetition.
Then I would stand up and rock him gently while singing some songs. After I’d put him to bed a few times, he said, “Sing song.” when I stood up after finishing the story. That was unbelievably cute, and I think it also showed that he was just waiting for the story to be over so I would sing to him.
My normal lullaby repertoire was the first few tracks from the Flaming Lips’ 2002 album, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots. That usually did the trick, although sometimes I had to venture into Side B or whatever. (I have the CD, so I don’t know where Side B begins. I feel like it begins with track #5, “In the Morning of the Magicians.” That song definitely represents a shift in the album’s mood.)
I switched it up a few times with selections from the Flaming Lips’ 1999 album, The Soft Bulletin (generally considered to be their best), but they didn’t seem to have a soporific effect. I was probably too dependent on the Flaming Lips’ catalog, but those just happened to be the only songs whose lyrics I could remember that felt like they could work as lullabies.
It felt good to be the Designated Lullaby Guy, but, the more I did it, the more anxiety crept into it. It was like every time I was putting him down, I had to convince myself that there was hope for the world so I wouldn’t be overcome by despair. It became a very emotional task for me.
I had to believe that everything would be alright in the end. I still may not believe that, but I had to convince myself that it was true, if only for a few minutes. The more relaxed I was, the easier it was to get him to fall asleep. But, even when I was relaxed, there was an undercurrent of anxiety, and I wondered if he felt that as I held him.
So, every time I put him down for his nap or for the night, I had to face my fear of the future. For me, that’s a daunting task. I don’t know if things are gonna be alright for us or me or Paddy. I worry so much about where things are heading, and that was before Trump became president. But I really wanted to come through as the Designed Lullaby Guy and defeat those fears, if only for Paddy’s sake and only for a little while.
My sister returned and spent 4 days with us, which was a huge relief. It took a lot of the child-rearing pressure off, allowing me to enjoy their company. And I didn’t have to go straight from high stress and stimulation to no stress or stimulation, which I think would’ve been a big comedown. My temp job as a mail clerk was not providing me much of either of those.
Unfortunately, my nephew’s behavior seemed to worsen with his mother’s return. “Now” suddenly entered his lexicon, as in “I want this thing NOW!” That was an unwelcome development, but it shouldn’t have been unexpected for a 2-year-old.
Since Theresa and Paddy returned to South Bend 4 weeks ago, I’ve been waiting for my new medication, Prozac, to kick in. I passed the one-month mark of taking it a week ago, but my anxiety seemed to be getting worse. I emailed the psychiatrist, and she switched me to Lexapro. Now I’m playing the waiting game with that one. It should take effect in the next few weeks and, God willing, it will ease my anxiety.
I took the unusual step of telling a barista at my favorite coffee shop (Bob’s Java Hut in Uptown) about my game of Musical Meds. I don’t usually open up that much to casual acquaintances. To my great consolation, he said he’d been on some of the same meds. It felt really good to find someone who could relate.
I’ve been employing a few different techniques to help my mental state: therapy, talking with my parents, exercise, being outside, going to Uptown, going to plays and movies, going to stand-up open mic’s, hanging out with friends. I’m quite lean in the friends department, so that last one has been the least-used technique in my arsenal, which is too bad, because it’s probably the most effective.
I got a chance to hang out my friend Tim and his co-worker last night. We were in downtown St. Paul and saw the play Baskerville at the Park Square Theater. (I highly recommend it.) That was really cool, but I was up late and didn’t get enough sleep. As a result, exercise didn’t seem like an option for me today. That’s why I’m writing.
It’s one of the techniques I hadn’t yet tried, but it seems to be working. I’ve spent all afternoon on our deck on this fine day, first writing in my notebook and now typing on my laptop. I’m better off not looking at a screen, but I Iove crafting a piece on the computer. You can really sculpt your writing on a digital format.
Lately, however, I feel my soul getting dragged down whenever I look at my phone, laptop or the TV. Just looking away from the screen can immediately lift my spirits and allow my soul to take wing. (Well, that second part is a bit of an exaggeration, but only a bit.) I’ve cut back on my screen time lately with that in mind.
I’m basically trying to write myself out of this rut, and, for now, I’ve succeeded. Hopefully, you’ve enjoyed the ride too.
The Paxil had been very effective, obviously. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have felt comfortable coming off it. But I put on 20 lbs. soon after starting it, and my throat had a dry feeling that made eating or drinking anything with sugar somewhat unpleasant. I was willing to put up with those side effects for a year-and-a-half, but eventually I didn’t think it was necessary.
I knew there were risks in coming off Paxil, but what took me by surprise was the strength of the anxiety. It’s not like I was miserable when I started it. At the time, I was doing OK on Zoloft, but that didn’t seem to have much effect, so I figured coming off Paxil, at worse, would put me back in that “fair to middlin’” zone.
After I’d been off Paxil for a month or so, I felt fine and figured I was in the clear. But then the anxiety started creeping back in, until 2 days before my 2-year-old nephew Patrick (or “Paddy,” as I like to call him) came to visit, when it settled in for good. And it wasn’t that “fair to middlin’” anxiety. It was the hard stuff.
That’s just the kind of bad timing I’m known for. My parents and I would be taking care of my nephew for 10 days while my sister and brother-in-law were on vacation in Iceland. Those 10 days were pretty rough, which sucked because I took 9 days off from my temp job so I could hang out with Paddy and help my parents take care of him.
I felt like I was trapped in the house with my parents, a 2-year-old and all my issues from childhood. I got through it with the help of daily meditation and escapes to Uptown in the afternoon after putting him down for his nap.
Ya know, I may not be good at Life, but I’m good at singing my nephew to sleep, and that’s gotta count for something.
Per my sister’s instructions, I would sit down with him in my lap and tell him a story I made up. (Books had become too stimulating for him.) The story was often about a boy named Patrick who climbs a rainbow to a magical city in the clouds. That was after I decided to stop just giving him a synopsis of The Hobbit with his name in place of Bilbo’s.
I figured he deserved better than that. He deserved an original story, and, as a writer, I should be able to give him one. I doubt Patrick and the Rainbow will ever take its place alongside The Hobbit as one of the classics of children’s literature, but I think I was able to refine it with repetition.
Then I would stand up and rock him gently while singing some songs. After I’d put him to bed a few times, he said, “Sing song.” when I stood up after finishing the story. That was unbelievably cute, and I think it also showed that he was just waiting for the story to be over so I would sing to him.
My normal lullaby repertoire was the first few tracks from the Flaming Lips’ 2002 album, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots. That usually did the trick, although sometimes I had to venture into Side B or whatever. (I have the CD, so I don’t know where Side B begins. I feel like it begins with track #5, “In the Morning of the Magicians.” That song definitely represents a shift in the album’s mood.)
I switched it up a few times with selections from the Flaming Lips’ 1999 album, The Soft Bulletin (generally considered to be their best), but they didn’t seem to have a soporific effect. I was probably too dependent on the Flaming Lips’ catalog, but those just happened to be the only songs whose lyrics I could remember that felt like they could work as lullabies.
It felt good to be the Designated Lullaby Guy, but, the more I did it, the more anxiety crept into it. It was like every time I was putting him down, I had to convince myself that there was hope for the world so I wouldn’t be overcome by despair. It became a very emotional task for me.
I had to believe that everything would be alright in the end. I still may not believe that, but I had to convince myself that it was true, if only for a few minutes. The more relaxed I was, the easier it was to get him to fall asleep. But, even when I was relaxed, there was an undercurrent of anxiety, and I wondered if he felt that as I held him.
So, every time I put him down for his nap or for the night, I had to face my fear of the future. For me, that’s a daunting task. I don’t know if things are gonna be alright for us or me or Paddy. I worry so much about where things are heading, and that was before Trump became president. But I really wanted to come through as the Designed Lullaby Guy and defeat those fears, if only for Paddy’s sake and only for a little while.
My sister returned and spent 4 days with us, which was a huge relief. It took a lot of the child-rearing pressure off, allowing me to enjoy their company. And I didn’t have to go straight from high stress and stimulation to no stress or stimulation, which I think would’ve been a big comedown. My temp job as a mail clerk was not providing me much of either of those.
Unfortunately, my nephew’s behavior seemed to worsen with his mother’s return. “Now” suddenly entered his lexicon, as in “I want this thing NOW!” That was an unwelcome development, but it shouldn’t have been unexpected for a 2-year-old.
Since Theresa and Paddy returned to South Bend 4 weeks ago, I’ve been waiting for my new medication, Prozac, to kick in. I passed the one-month mark of taking it a week ago, but my anxiety seemed to be getting worse. I emailed the psychiatrist, and she switched me to Lexapro. Now I’m playing the waiting game with that one. It should take effect in the next few weeks and, God willing, it will ease my anxiety.
I took the unusual step of telling a barista at my favorite coffee shop (Bob’s Java Hut in Uptown) about my game of Musical Meds. I don’t usually open up that much to casual acquaintances. To my great consolation, he said he’d been on some of the same meds. It felt really good to find someone who could relate.
I’ve been employing a few different techniques to help my mental state: therapy, talking with my parents, exercise, being outside, going to Uptown, going to plays and movies, going to stand-up open mic’s, hanging out with friends. I’m quite lean in the friends department, so that last one has been the least-used technique in my arsenal, which is too bad, because it’s probably the most effective.
I got a chance to hang out my friend Tim and his co-worker last night. We were in downtown St. Paul and saw the play Baskerville at the Park Square Theater. (I highly recommend it.) That was really cool, but I was up late and didn’t get enough sleep. As a result, exercise didn’t seem like an option for me today. That’s why I’m writing.
It’s one of the techniques I hadn’t yet tried, but it seems to be working. I’ve spent all afternoon on our deck on this fine day, first writing in my notebook and now typing on my laptop. I’m better off not looking at a screen, but I Iove crafting a piece on the computer. You can really sculpt your writing on a digital format.
Lately, however, I feel my soul getting dragged down whenever I look at my phone, laptop or the TV. Just looking away from the screen can immediately lift my spirits and allow my soul to take wing. (Well, that second part is a bit of an exaggeration, but only a bit.) I’ve cut back on my screen time lately with that in mind.
I’m basically trying to write myself out of this rut, and, for now, I’ve succeeded. Hopefully, you’ve enjoyed the ride too.
Sunday, July 15, 2018
A List of Mystery Book Titles
I temped at Barnes and Noble this week, scanning books on
the shelf to see which needed to be taken down. The second section I scanned
was Mystery, which provided me with a bevy of hilarious titles of food-,
animal- and even holiday-related mysteries. I wrote down dozens of the titles
and offer them here for your consideration:
Food-related Mysteries
Truffled to Death
The Long Quiche Goodbye
Behind Chocolate Bars
Assaulted Caramel
(Yes. I say “yes” to this.)
Another One Bites the
Crust
Til Death Do Us Tart
Fudge and Jury (I
would’ve gone all the way with this one: Fudge,
Jury and Confectioner.)
Crust No One
Live and Let Chai
(my personal motto)
Arsenic and Old Cake (I’m
building to something here.)
A Sheetcake Named
Desire (A mere appetizer before the main course.)
Survival of the
Fritters (Wait for it.)
The Silence of the
Flans (Voila! I’m pretty sure “flan” is pronounced with a long “a,” so it
doesn’t really rhyme with “lamb,” but you’ve gotta admire the effort, the sheer
chutzpah of this title.)
Pies and Prejudice
Meet Your Baker
A Crime of Passion
Fruit
A Roux of Revenge
Dial M for Mousse
Éclair and Present
Danger
Pudding Up with Murder
(Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!)
Cheddar Off Dead
Butter Off Dead
(the inferior version of the previous pun)
Topped Chef (I’ve
never seen Top Chef, but I’m glad it
exists just for enabling this pun to exist.)
Bewitched, Bothered
and Biscotti (A strange Venn diagram of fans of food-related mysteries and
classic musical theater. Well, maybe not that strange.)
Scam Chowder
The Tell-Tale Tarte
A Brew to a Kill
(easily the worst James Bond film)
The Wurst is Yet to
Come
Clam Wake
Biscuits and Slashed
Browns (This is a reach.)
Lethal Licorice
Death is Like a Box of
Chocolates (I can just hear Forrest Gump saying that, and it feels me with great
mirth.)
Book-related Mysteries
Bookmarked for Death
Book Clubbed
Chapter and Hearse
Animal-related Mysteries
Gone Gull (A
take-off on Gone Girl, I assume.)
Die Like An Eagle
(The Steve Miller Band parody no one dared imagine.)
A Hiss Before Dying
(about cats, natch)
Holiday-related Mysteries
Cinco de Murder
(Just beautiful on so many levels.)
Rest Ye Murdered
Gentlemen
Hark the Herald Angels
Slay
Miscellaneous Pun Mysteries
Dead, Bath and Beyond
This Old Homicide
(for fans of classic PBS home renovation show-related murder)
Cancelled by Murder
(I don’t know what this is related to. Parties, maybe? I just thought it was
absurdly limp. Ya couldn’t even go with Cancelled
Due to Murder?)
Then there’s Joanne Fluke. She just uses desserts for her
book titles and adds “murder.” So, at this point, she has associated pretty
much every dessert in the Western canon with murder. It’s pretty lazy compared
to the authors who bothered to come up with puns, but I found the sheer volume
hilarious. I had no idea desserts could be so deadly (Death by Chocolate
notwithstanding). To wit:
Chocolate Chip Cookie
Murder
Blueberry Muffin
Murder
Cinnamon Roll Murder
Apple Turnover Murder
Peach Cobbler Murder
Strawberry Shortcake
Murder
Cream Puff Murder
Raspberry Danish
Murder
Banana Cream Pie
Murder
Lemon Meringue Pie
Murder
Key Lime Pie Murder
Blackberry Pie Murder
Carrot Cake Murder
Devil’s Food Cake
Murder
Cherry Cheesecake
Murder
Fudge Cupcake Murder
Red Velvet Cupcake
Murder
Double Fudge Brownie
Murder
Gingerbread Cookie
Murder
Christmas Caramel
Murder
Candy Cane Murder
Wedding Cake Murder
Not surprisingly, she also has a cookbook, which I assume only
has dessert recipes based on her book titles. There were a few books at the end
of her section with more conventional mystery titles, which were just as funny
to me. They included Deadly Memories,
Vengeance is Mine and Fatal Identity.
Well, I hope you’ve enjoyed this tour of the Har Mar Barnes
and Noble Mystery section as much as I did.
Wednesday, June 06, 2018
The Polite Protest
A few weeks ago, there was a demonstration scheduled for Net Neutrality at the St. Paul office of U.S. Senator Tina Smith. On a whim, I signed up for it the day before, thinking I needed some kind of activity and socialization beyond the usual combination of muted TV and podcasts or YouTube videos that fill my weeknights.
The office was easy to get to from my job in Inver Grove Heights. It's in that weirdly under-developed area south of downtown St. Paul (which I described in my last essay). It’s easy to miss because the building says “Drake” on top, as in Drake Bank, which dominates the first floor. There’s also a sign that says “Private Property” at the entrance to the parking lot. Not a very welcoming sight for a U.S. senator’s office.
The weather was not encouraging either. It was grey and wet, a soggy end to the first day of the year that approached 80°. I got there at 5, but the demo wasn’t supposed to start until 5:30, so I sat in my car eating trail mix. A few people came out to their cars, apparently done with the working day. One woman gave me a side-long glance, seemingly unnerved by my presence. I can’t say I blame her. If I saw a guy sitting in his car eating trail mix, I’d probably be unnerved too.
After 10 minutes of that, I got out and went inside. There was a woman vacuuming the 1st floor and another one vacuuming the 2nd. I walked by the senator’s office on the 2nd floor. It looked like you needed a badge or something to get in the lobby. The reception desk was enclosed in glass like a box office or bank teller, with a speaker for talking to the receptionist. It seemed a little like overkill on the security, but they’ve probably gotten their share of crazies.
I continued down the hall to the exit, which took me to the stairs, which led me outside. Disappointed, I went back around to the front and re-entered, hoping not to look like a crazy person to the cleaning personnel. Back on the 2nd floor, I sat down in one of the big, comfy chairs in the hall and waited for my fellow activists.
Some of the senator’s staff left while I was waiting. They were young and mostly female. I looked up as they passed, but they didn’t make eye contact. I tried to keep my resentment in check, but it boiled up a bit. Here they were, young, idealistic go-getters, no doubt, and they couldn’t even deign to look me in the eye.
I know that fear of strangers well, but in the moment it felt insulting. They probably have to deal with a lot of angry people on the phone and maybe even in person. At the time, though, that didn't ease my annoyance. I was thinking more about how they're working to keep the world safe for "democracy" (a.k.a. Big Business).
These are supposed to be our best and brightest, and they’re scared of a chill dude dressed in business casual? I’m pretty sure I didn’t have that grim look I often get. I was wearing a long raincoat, but that shouldn’t have been too alarming. It was raining, after all. Of course, they were off the clock at that point, so they may not have wanted to deal with any more opinionated folks that day.
Two activists showed up at 5:30 and sat down with me. They were also White, a guy in his 20’s, I’m guessing, and a woman who may’ve been in her 40’s. The guy had strong opinions which he shared in a studiously casual tone. The woman was more reserved, letting the guy spout off in between swigs of Mountain Dew.
“This may be an unpopular opinion,” he began. “But I don’t think Israel should exist. At least not in its current state.” I actually agreed with most of what he said, but his rhetoric was so casually violent that I felt the need to chime in with some friendly dampeners. He thought Ajit Pai, the FCC chair, should be assassinated.
The main difference between me and him was style. I’ve learned to temper my rhetoric. He seemed to be in the throes of the anger that precipitated the political awakening of my late 20’s. I’m still often seized by the wish to see the people that he named dead, but now I’m at least smart enough not to say so in front of strangers.
However, the young man's frankness was a welcome contrast from the rest of us, who were typically Minnesotan in our reserve.
Another woman showed up later. She was actually employed by a political group, but even she didn't know what the plan was. While we were talking, the last 4 workers in the senator's office turned off the lights and quietly filed past us. The professional activist said “hi,” but none of us had the guts to try and strike up a conversation.
As we left, the professional took our phone numbers in the hope of meeting up to discuss our political interests. Once we were outside, we ran into 2 women who'd also been involved in the "demonstration." They had thank-you cards for the Minnesota senators, since they've both supported Net Neutrality.
We wrote down our contact info for one of them. The other had a sign with the “Don’t Tread on Me” flag design on it. The coiled snake was made of a phone cable.
I became quite confident when I saw their awkwardness. I thought, “Compared to these people, I’m fucking George Clooney!” It gave me a lot of confidence to get involved and be the public face of something.
Left-wing political organizing seems short on charisma. I suppose that’s just as well. We don’t want anyone accumulating too much power. No one should be bigger than the movement (although I wouldn't mind getting a little ego boost off of it).
The office was easy to get to from my job in Inver Grove Heights. It's in that weirdly under-developed area south of downtown St. Paul (which I described in my last essay). It’s easy to miss because the building says “Drake” on top, as in Drake Bank, which dominates the first floor. There’s also a sign that says “Private Property” at the entrance to the parking lot. Not a very welcoming sight for a U.S. senator’s office.
The weather was not encouraging either. It was grey and wet, a soggy end to the first day of the year that approached 80°. I got there at 5, but the demo wasn’t supposed to start until 5:30, so I sat in my car eating trail mix. A few people came out to their cars, apparently done with the working day. One woman gave me a side-long glance, seemingly unnerved by my presence. I can’t say I blame her. If I saw a guy sitting in his car eating trail mix, I’d probably be unnerved too.
After 10 minutes of that, I got out and went inside. There was a woman vacuuming the 1st floor and another one vacuuming the 2nd. I walked by the senator’s office on the 2nd floor. It looked like you needed a badge or something to get in the lobby. The reception desk was enclosed in glass like a box office or bank teller, with a speaker for talking to the receptionist. It seemed a little like overkill on the security, but they’ve probably gotten their share of crazies.
I continued down the hall to the exit, which took me to the stairs, which led me outside. Disappointed, I went back around to the front and re-entered, hoping not to look like a crazy person to the cleaning personnel. Back on the 2nd floor, I sat down in one of the big, comfy chairs in the hall and waited for my fellow activists.
Some of the senator’s staff left while I was waiting. They were young and mostly female. I looked up as they passed, but they didn’t make eye contact. I tried to keep my resentment in check, but it boiled up a bit. Here they were, young, idealistic go-getters, no doubt, and they couldn’t even deign to look me in the eye.
I know that fear of strangers well, but in the moment it felt insulting. They probably have to deal with a lot of angry people on the phone and maybe even in person. At the time, though, that didn't ease my annoyance. I was thinking more about how they're working to keep the world safe for "democracy" (a.k.a. Big Business).
These are supposed to be our best and brightest, and they’re scared of a chill dude dressed in business casual? I’m pretty sure I didn’t have that grim look I often get. I was wearing a long raincoat, but that shouldn’t have been too alarming. It was raining, after all. Of course, they were off the clock at that point, so they may not have wanted to deal with any more opinionated folks that day.
Two activists showed up at 5:30 and sat down with me. They were also White, a guy in his 20’s, I’m guessing, and a woman who may’ve been in her 40’s. The guy had strong opinions which he shared in a studiously casual tone. The woman was more reserved, letting the guy spout off in between swigs of Mountain Dew.
“This may be an unpopular opinion,” he began. “But I don’t think Israel should exist. At least not in its current state.” I actually agreed with most of what he said, but his rhetoric was so casually violent that I felt the need to chime in with some friendly dampeners. He thought Ajit Pai, the FCC chair, should be assassinated.
The main difference between me and him was style. I’ve learned to temper my rhetoric. He seemed to be in the throes of the anger that precipitated the political awakening of my late 20’s. I’m still often seized by the wish to see the people that he named dead, but now I’m at least smart enough not to say so in front of strangers.
However, the young man's frankness was a welcome contrast from the rest of us, who were typically Minnesotan in our reserve.
Another woman showed up later. She was actually employed by a political group, but even she didn't know what the plan was. While we were talking, the last 4 workers in the senator's office turned off the lights and quietly filed past us. The professional activist said “hi,” but none of us had the guts to try and strike up a conversation.
As we left, the professional took our phone numbers in the hope of meeting up to discuss our political interests. Once we were outside, we ran into 2 women who'd also been involved in the "demonstration." They had thank-you cards for the Minnesota senators, since they've both supported Net Neutrality.
We wrote down our contact info for one of them. The other had a sign with the “Don’t Tread on Me” flag design on it. The coiled snake was made of a phone cable.
I became quite confident when I saw their awkwardness. I thought, “Compared to these people, I’m fucking George Clooney!” It gave me a lot of confidence to get involved and be the public face of something.
Left-wing political organizing seems short on charisma. I suppose that’s just as well. We don’t want anyone accumulating too much power. No one should be bigger than the movement (although I wouldn't mind getting a little ego boost off of it).
Saturday, May 12, 2018
Anglo at Cinco de Mayo
Author’s Note: I’m going to be talking about my racial anxiety as an upper-middle-class White dude in this, and I felt really uncomfortable writing it, so if I offend anyone, I’m truly sorry.
Last Saturday I decided to check out the Cinco de Mayo festival on the Westside of St. Paul. Having never been, it seemed like the thing to do.
I took the long approach from the south on Robert Street, having been warned against the more direct route on 94 by my phone. From behind the wheel I watched the suburbs turn into the city, not really knowing where the change occurred. The inner-ring 'burbs look like the city used to. The poverty has expanded outward. (I didn't hit the newly-gentrified core 'til I got downtown.)
The somewhat-run-down, down-market stores probably weren't what the urban planners had in mind for the 'burbs, but I don't consider them a big comedown from the hollow suburbia of my 80's and 90's youth.
I saw people on the sidewalk, walking both toward and away from the festivities. They were mostly Latino. (Latinx? Sorry, I haven't been keeping up with this stuff.) There were tons of cars parked on the side streets, but I didn't take the hint soon enough to avoid getting sucked into the traffic jam. Like a moth to a flame, I just kept moving inexorably toward my doom.
The jam only extended for a block south of the festival, but it took forever to get through that block. I was listening to King Missile's The Way to Salvation album on CD, because that's what you do when you're a single, White 40-year-old comedy nerd. (Tenacious D is great, but King Missile is still my favorite comedy band, although I do give the D the edge in terms of songwriting and musicianship. For those who wonder how I could still prefer King Missile, you clearly haven't heard the lyrics and delivery of the great John S. Hall.)
It didn't feel like I was on the way to salvation though. It felt like I was getting sucked into the same old vortex of inertia, isolation and ennui, the triumvirate of my personal maladies. I almost turned off the engine while waiting for the light to change for the last (5th? 6th?) time.
While I was sitting in traffic, a fight broke out on the near left corner of the intersection, which was a surprise. In the olden days, that might've convinced me to skip the festival, but it didn't bother me this time. It was quickly broken up by people in fluorescent crossing-guard pinafores.
I continued through the intersection and didn't find any parking until I was several blocks away. There were some lots there, but the only price I saw was $10, so I kept going across the next bridge over the Mississippi, where I was suddenly in downtown St. Paul.
As a former Minneapolitan, I fully admit to an anti-St. Paul bias, but St. Paul is geographically strange. The streets aren't on a grid, West St. Paul is actually south of St. Paul, South St. Paul is southeast and the Westside is actually on the southside.
I turned around and doubled back in search of cheaper parking, but with the traffic it took forever, and I wound up using that $10 lot I had initially disdained. I'd wasted enough time looking for parking, and the time investment added to my resolve to attend the festival, parking costs be damned.
So I finally got out of the car and walked south on Robert St. to the “Westside.” I crossed a bridge that passed over a junkyard with a sign that said "Beware of Dog." My reaction was, "Really? You really have a junkyard dog?" That was a little thrill for me, since I followed pro wrestling in the 80's, but I didn’t see any dogs.
Once over the bridge, I was in the Westside, and, to be honest, it could use some urban renewal, in the meaningful, not idiomatic sense. It's certainly not as run-down as a lot of ghettos, but it has seen better days. I felt a bit anxious as the only White person around, walking by Black teenagers and 20-something's (I'm guessing), trying to keep my cool.
I find it easier to do that now than when I was a minority living in Chicago’s Rogers Park right out of college. I wasn't scrupulously avoiding eye contact like I used to, just going on my merry way. The old middle-class injunction for traversing Black neighborhoods ("Don't make eye contact!") didn't seem like a good approach in this situation.
I negotiated the sidewalk without incident and made it to César Chávez Street, along which the festival was taking place. That’s where the crush of people was thickest. Chavez runs at a northwest-southeast diagonal to Robert. I stayed on the west side of Robert and walked northwest on Chavez.
The first tent I passed was of the Crazy Christian variety. Middle-aged White dudes encouraged us to repent our sins, but they were pretty polite about it. They dished out a Minnesota Nice version of fire and brimstone. One wonders how they got a spot at a Cinco de Mayo street festival.
Other than that, the fare was pretty much what you’d expect: Mexican food, soccer jerseys, t-shirts with the Virgin Mary, local non-profits. I turned around and headed back up Chávez, crossing Robert with a flotilla of fair-goers when the light turned. The festival extended much farther southeast of Robert.
There were music stages set up in restaurant parking lots with bands playing Mexican and American styles. A band in the street (with mic’s and a sound system) played South American pan flute music. There was one parking lot concert dominated by White folks, but otherwise we were outnumbered by the Black and Brown.
That’s when I thought, “It’s good to be a minority sometimes, just to remind yourself what it’s like.” Of course, I knew the police, government and social power structure had my back, so I still don’t know exactly what it’s like.
There seemed to be the potential for violence in the crowd. One short Black guy followed a big Black guy, spoiling for a fight. He probably knew the big guy wouldn’t take him on with all the police and security personnel around. There were also guys in community group t-shirts apparently attempting to keep the peace, on the lookout for troublemakers. I didn’t feel unsafe, but I tried to keep my distance from the dudes who looked like bad news.
After wandering for several blocks, I reached the southeast tip of the festival, where the lowriders were. This is where I tarried. I was intrigued by the old, pimped-out cars. I’m not a car guy, but I do enjoy looking at classic automobiles. There’s just something about the aesthetics I find irresistible.
I turned around and headed back down Chávez. This was mid-afternoon. It was in the low 80’s and the sun was out, so I was kinda sweaty and walked along the southwest side of the street to catch some shade.
I wasn’t hungry, so there was no point in indulging in the cuisine. An hour was long enough to just walk around and get a taste of the scene, so I headed toward Robert St. to get back to my car. But, after managing to keep it in check, my racial anxiety was now peaking.
I’d walked along the west side of Robert to get there, and now I was on the east side, where there were a lot of Black kids. For the first time, I had the feeling of being on their turf. The festival crowd had offered a sense of protection, but now I was the only White person in a smaller group. It felt like, if there was gonna be trouble, it would happen here on the periphery of the event.
I would’ve had to wait for the light to change if I wanted to walk back on the west side. But I didn’t wanna be a fucking wuss, so I set off down the east side of the street. Spoiler alert: There was no trouble. I was just uncomfortable for a while.
I cut through pockets of Black kids and kept my cool-as-a-cucumber vibe as best I could. There was also a bunch of police around, so I probably shouldn’t have been so worried. Now that I think about it, I wasn’t really worried about getting assaulted or mugged or anything like that. I was just worried about getting harassed, maybe bumped or bullied. Just high school shit.
I guess the lesson is: This is what POC’s deal with daily, albeit on a (hopefully) less-intense basis. I hope that was worth all the discomfort of writing and (presumably) reading this. Don’t get me wrong: I think the PC Police have done a lot of good in making sure the language that refers to oppressed groups is cool with those groups. We privileged folks should be mindful of how we talk to and about people from marginalized communities.
But they’ve gone too far when any mention of race, gender or sexuality produces extreme anxiety. How can we get over these prejudices if we can’t even talk about them? What we need is a bit less sanctimony and a bit more humility from the SJW’s, a group whose class privilege often eclipses that of the people they harangue. Instead of pointing out other people’s faults, take a look in the mirror. This essay is my attempt at doing that.
Last Saturday I decided to check out the Cinco de Mayo festival on the Westside of St. Paul. Having never been, it seemed like the thing to do.
I took the long approach from the south on Robert Street, having been warned against the more direct route on 94 by my phone. From behind the wheel I watched the suburbs turn into the city, not really knowing where the change occurred. The inner-ring 'burbs look like the city used to. The poverty has expanded outward. (I didn't hit the newly-gentrified core 'til I got downtown.)
The somewhat-run-down, down-market stores probably weren't what the urban planners had in mind for the 'burbs, but I don't consider them a big comedown from the hollow suburbia of my 80's and 90's youth.
I saw people on the sidewalk, walking both toward and away from the festivities. They were mostly Latino. (Latinx? Sorry, I haven't been keeping up with this stuff.) There were tons of cars parked on the side streets, but I didn't take the hint soon enough to avoid getting sucked into the traffic jam. Like a moth to a flame, I just kept moving inexorably toward my doom.
The jam only extended for a block south of the festival, but it took forever to get through that block. I was listening to King Missile's The Way to Salvation album on CD, because that's what you do when you're a single, White 40-year-old comedy nerd. (Tenacious D is great, but King Missile is still my favorite comedy band, although I do give the D the edge in terms of songwriting and musicianship. For those who wonder how I could still prefer King Missile, you clearly haven't heard the lyrics and delivery of the great John S. Hall.)
It didn't feel like I was on the way to salvation though. It felt like I was getting sucked into the same old vortex of inertia, isolation and ennui, the triumvirate of my personal maladies. I almost turned off the engine while waiting for the light to change for the last (5th? 6th?) time.
While I was sitting in traffic, a fight broke out on the near left corner of the intersection, which was a surprise. In the olden days, that might've convinced me to skip the festival, but it didn't bother me this time. It was quickly broken up by people in fluorescent crossing-guard pinafores.
I continued through the intersection and didn't find any parking until I was several blocks away. There were some lots there, but the only price I saw was $10, so I kept going across the next bridge over the Mississippi, where I was suddenly in downtown St. Paul.
As a former Minneapolitan, I fully admit to an anti-St. Paul bias, but St. Paul is geographically strange. The streets aren't on a grid, West St. Paul is actually south of St. Paul, South St. Paul is southeast and the Westside is actually on the southside.
I turned around and doubled back in search of cheaper parking, but with the traffic it took forever, and I wound up using that $10 lot I had initially disdained. I'd wasted enough time looking for parking, and the time investment added to my resolve to attend the festival, parking costs be damned.
So I finally got out of the car and walked south on Robert St. to the “Westside.” I crossed a bridge that passed over a junkyard with a sign that said "Beware of Dog." My reaction was, "Really? You really have a junkyard dog?" That was a little thrill for me, since I followed pro wrestling in the 80's, but I didn’t see any dogs.
Once over the bridge, I was in the Westside, and, to be honest, it could use some urban renewal, in the meaningful, not idiomatic sense. It's certainly not as run-down as a lot of ghettos, but it has seen better days. I felt a bit anxious as the only White person around, walking by Black teenagers and 20-something's (I'm guessing), trying to keep my cool.
I find it easier to do that now than when I was a minority living in Chicago’s Rogers Park right out of college. I wasn't scrupulously avoiding eye contact like I used to, just going on my merry way. The old middle-class injunction for traversing Black neighborhoods ("Don't make eye contact!") didn't seem like a good approach in this situation.
I negotiated the sidewalk without incident and made it to César Chávez Street, along which the festival was taking place. That’s where the crush of people was thickest. Chavez runs at a northwest-southeast diagonal to Robert. I stayed on the west side of Robert and walked northwest on Chavez.
The first tent I passed was of the Crazy Christian variety. Middle-aged White dudes encouraged us to repent our sins, but they were pretty polite about it. They dished out a Minnesota Nice version of fire and brimstone. One wonders how they got a spot at a Cinco de Mayo street festival.
Other than that, the fare was pretty much what you’d expect: Mexican food, soccer jerseys, t-shirts with the Virgin Mary, local non-profits. I turned around and headed back up Chávez, crossing Robert with a flotilla of fair-goers when the light turned. The festival extended much farther southeast of Robert.
There were music stages set up in restaurant parking lots with bands playing Mexican and American styles. A band in the street (with mic’s and a sound system) played South American pan flute music. There was one parking lot concert dominated by White folks, but otherwise we were outnumbered by the Black and Brown.
That’s when I thought, “It’s good to be a minority sometimes, just to remind yourself what it’s like.” Of course, I knew the police, government and social power structure had my back, so I still don’t know exactly what it’s like.
There seemed to be the potential for violence in the crowd. One short Black guy followed a big Black guy, spoiling for a fight. He probably knew the big guy wouldn’t take him on with all the police and security personnel around. There were also guys in community group t-shirts apparently attempting to keep the peace, on the lookout for troublemakers. I didn’t feel unsafe, but I tried to keep my distance from the dudes who looked like bad news.
After wandering for several blocks, I reached the southeast tip of the festival, where the lowriders were. This is where I tarried. I was intrigued by the old, pimped-out cars. I’m not a car guy, but I do enjoy looking at classic automobiles. There’s just something about the aesthetics I find irresistible.
I turned around and headed back down Chávez. This was mid-afternoon. It was in the low 80’s and the sun was out, so I was kinda sweaty and walked along the southwest side of the street to catch some shade.
I wasn’t hungry, so there was no point in indulging in the cuisine. An hour was long enough to just walk around and get a taste of the scene, so I headed toward Robert St. to get back to my car. But, after managing to keep it in check, my racial anxiety was now peaking.
I’d walked along the west side of Robert to get there, and now I was on the east side, where there were a lot of Black kids. For the first time, I had the feeling of being on their turf. The festival crowd had offered a sense of protection, but now I was the only White person in a smaller group. It felt like, if there was gonna be trouble, it would happen here on the periphery of the event.
I would’ve had to wait for the light to change if I wanted to walk back on the west side. But I didn’t wanna be a fucking wuss, so I set off down the east side of the street. Spoiler alert: There was no trouble. I was just uncomfortable for a while.
I cut through pockets of Black kids and kept my cool-as-a-cucumber vibe as best I could. There was also a bunch of police around, so I probably shouldn’t have been so worried. Now that I think about it, I wasn’t really worried about getting assaulted or mugged or anything like that. I was just worried about getting harassed, maybe bumped or bullied. Just high school shit.
I guess the lesson is: This is what POC’s deal with daily, albeit on a (hopefully) less-intense basis. I hope that was worth all the discomfort of writing and (presumably) reading this. Don’t get me wrong: I think the PC Police have done a lot of good in making sure the language that refers to oppressed groups is cool with those groups. We privileged folks should be mindful of how we talk to and about people from marginalized communities.
But they’ve gone too far when any mention of race, gender or sexuality produces extreme anxiety. How can we get over these prejudices if we can’t even talk about them? What we need is a bit less sanctimony and a bit more humility from the SJW’s, a group whose class privilege often eclipses that of the people they harangue. Instead of pointing out other people’s faults, take a look in the mirror. This essay is my attempt at doing that.
Saturday, May 05, 2018
Body-sculpting
I shall be
my own Michelangelo,
carving my
ideal shape out of this block of sludge.
It seems so easy
sometimes,
just to lop
off the offending portions of my body (mainly the belly),
leaving only
my True Self,
the
Herculean form I was meant to have.
Sculpted
from marble,
I would
stand in rough-hewn glory,
bestriding
the earth like a Colossus.
I can’t let
go of those old dreams of perfection.
They cling
to me like a vestigial wing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)