I am a book snob. More so than other types of media, as reading a book is a commitment in time and requires more mental effort than listening to music or watching a film/TV. It’s possible to turn off the higher cognitive function of your brain and look at the pretty explosions on the screen for two hours, or ignore the insipid lyrics and dance to the beat for the length of a song.

But reading requires time, comprehension and, at its best, elevates your mind and makes you see the world in a new way.

So when I see someone reading effin Twilight or, God help me, Fifty Shades of Crap , it makes my blood boil.

You’re spending all of that time and energy on something that’s badly written. Reading poorly written prose makes can only damage your own command of the language. The importance of the ability to communicate effectively cannot be stressed enough. It’s the way we find others who share our philosophies and the way we avoid wars.

However, people tend to find faults in others that they possess themselves so when I find something unattractive about another person, I see if that criticism applies to myself.

In this case I must admit that I do things that consume massive quantities of time I’ll never recover, require very little cognitive effort and doesn’t offer improvement as a person. My things are apps on my mobile device. (Hello GetGlue and Curiosity ).

So, read your crap. I promise I won’t roll my eyes in your presence (too much). I even promise I won’t say, ‘Yeah, I waste lots of time doing pointless things, as well.’

And at least when they’re done with wasting their time they have toilet paper. I just have an awesome piece of technology I don’t use to its highest potential.

Today I’d like to talk to you about the joys of Christmas and the holiday season in general. Being a non-social person from birth, I was pretty much over the holiday by the time I was 13 or so. I moved out when I was 20 and promptly got a job in retail, thereby giving me an excellent reason not to return to my family’s house for eight wonderful holiday seasons. I now have a job that isn’t retail and therefore this year I had no acceptable reason to stay home. [”I don’t believe in your god, his son–who would’ve been born in the summer FYI–or slavering consumerism as a placeholder for love.” Isn’t acceptable to most families, including mine.]

So I dragged my poor husband the three hour drive up to deal with my family. Never again, kids. Humans are quite adaptable, you know. Particularly when the adaptation is to a life that suits a you just fine–for example, neither my husband nor myself can stand being around lots of noise, people or a bunch of physical affection and we haven’t had to put up with those things for many months now so being forced back into the box of trying to tolerate loud people, hugs and fairy tales had us both climbing the walls. We came home after roughly eighteen hours in their presence and slept for the better part of twenty-four hours. Our dog had stayed with the canine equivalent of my family–several loud, rambunctious dogs–and she fell asleep as soon as we got into the Jeep. We got home, she got on the sofa and slept almost a day. People exhaust all of us.

Then I saw this column on the BBC about the statistical rise of drinking and murder (and interestingly, church attendance) during December. “While people are less inclined to take their own lives in the festive season, they are more likely to kill others.” They don’t specify if the people killed share DNA with their murderers, but I would bet they do.

So. Dealing with family leads people to drink and possibly murder those family members. I’m guessing the church attendance is along the lines of: “Look, god, I had to do it. Otherwise she wasn’t ever going to shut up.” Or “Please, Jesus, help me keep from killing these idiots.”
Christmas is bad for your health. Besides being a giant lie. For these reasons it should be cancelled.

[This is a re-post from Christmas 2007, but remains applicable]

[This post comes from a previous blog.]

Parents today come from a generation that believes in getting what they pay for. The more they pay for something, the more they’re getting out of that thing, dammit. This includes their child’s education. And this is where they start getting right on my tits [non-gender-specific British saying for being really effing annoying] . Here in hallowed halls of higher education we call them “helicopter parents” and they are a flipping pain in the ass. They’re paying for their darling snowflake angels to go to school here and they feel that the tuition covers getting As.

I would have defenestrated myself before I would have allowed (forget about ask) my parent to call the university. Today I had a kid (and I don’t care if I’m close to your age–if your mommy is on my phone, you’re a kid) call who would rather go through the hoops of the paperwork to allow his mother to talk to his professor. It’s illegal for our profs to talk to parents about their kids because after they’re eighteen THEY’RE GROWN UPS.

The helicopter today was trying to argue that her kid should be given a higher grade because he’s had a difficult life and he’s really handsome. I wanted to say that if she thought he wasn’t capable of handling college (since he’s so special and had such a hard time) maybe he should seek his fortune elsewhere. Her chief problem was that this grade would mean he’d be in college an extra semester. My response: That’s not the end of the world. It takes longer than four years to finish a degree now.

After a pause she said, “It may be for him.”

I suppose that was her only counter for my statement. I can’t say it’s convincing. Does he have some sort of incendiary device attached to him that goes off if he doesn’t get what he wants just when and how he wants it? (Oh yeah, her name is MOOOOOOOM!)

After twice speaking with this helicopter–or listening to her yammer (these parents tend to talk a LOT and very quickly) I thought the kid probably was embarrassed by her and would be apologetic if I ever spoke to him. Oh no. He called later on and I offered to let him speak to the department chair, but he wanted his mummy to talk to him.

And that’s when the vestige of bad I felt evaporated.

Then there was much discussion about how late was too late to get his grade converted. Because the mother was absolutely certain that if she comes to talk to the department chair she’ll browbeat him into changing the grade. Uh huh. She’s going to say how another prof said this kid was such a nice student (he didn’t do what he needed to in the class in question, though) and how he can do good work when he tries (didn’t try in the class though.) And how he’s had a hard life and that an extra semester will make him explode or some such.

I only hope that the mother can’t talk the prof into giving this wee bairn the points because that would only teach him that being an obnoxious prat pays off. They both need to learn that’s not true. See? College is about teaching everyone involved important life lessons.

Update: The mother won. She yammered at the dept head for twenty minutes and he caved. Another point for the obnoxious people.

Which is why it’s up to men to have rational conversations about women’s gross bits.

I’m surprised there’s no footage of at least one of these men shuddering and muttering about how women have cooties.

Poor women. Not only are they ruled by their messy parts, but they think they have the right to say what’s done to those parts.

It’s amazing that these guys aren’t supportive of female-to-male sex changes, since, who would want to be a woman? Obviously, women should accept their places (beneath) men, but it should at least be understandable why some women want to be men. Sort of a modern version of penis envy.

And who wouldn’t want one?

After all, having a penis gives you the right to tell people who don’t have one what to do with their bodies. You can also be president. And have (and express!) opinions. You’ll be clapped on the back for bedding as many of the poor non-penis-owners (apenii?). If you pay even moderate attention to the result of all of that bedding you’ll be considered a ‘good dad’. You’re even allowed to wear a neutral expression without having strangers demand that you, ‘Smile!’ And you get to be desirable up into your 80s, rather than having a shelf life of twenty years (if you’re lucky).

Hell, if I didn’t think they seemed difficult to deal with in hot weather or when trying to get comfortable in bed at night, I’d want one, as well.

This reminds me of a section of Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe by Fannie Flagg where Evelyn Couch realises the most powerful thing in the world are balls. She wants a pair because they give you the right to do anything you like.

I like this idea. Women could buy a pair (money would still define who had the most power-let’s not go too crazy) and whip them out whenever non-ball-having (anads?) people got too up themselves. I’d have an unwieldy set of brass cohones. They’d be like those Ben Wa balls with the bells inside so I wouldn’t need to bring them out-everyone would be able to hear them from several yards away.

Eventually, those poor natural-ball-having people would be jealous, but by then, the people with the biggest balls (women) would have control over men’s bodies.

Are testicles great because the people with the most power have them, or is it because they allow you to produce more children (which was desirable when the original set of power was being handed out)? A woman can only have one child a year, but a man could have hundreds in a year if he really put his…mind (ahem)… to it.

Now, having a great deal of children is a strain on men, as they are now required to support those children. So now the power lies in defining when and how many children are born. And that is untenable. Women must never be allowed to have any sort of power. Even if it’s over their own bodies.

What are men so afraid of? That, if women were put in charge, would subjugate men they way they’ve been doing to women for millenia?

No wonder they’re scared.

Here’s something to lighten the mood:

Hat Tip to Dorothy Snarker .

I haven’t paid a great deal of attention to the panels of men trying to make (American) women into unwilling incubators because I figured someone would say, ‘Oh, wait, we’ve already had this conversation. Let’s now turn our attention to things on which we haven’t reached a conclusion.’

What I hadn’t considered (admittedly, stupidly) was that the other side wouldn’t accept this and move on.

But no.

So, I was lying in bed this morning, and I was thinking: How can they not know this conversation was conducted?

And I realised-how do I know it was had? I’d only heard about it-I wasn’t there.

Perhaps all Americans thought being in Vietnam was brilliant. Perhaps Elvis is still alive. I wasn’t there for those things, either. What do I know?

Wait. We did win World War II, right?

Then I wondered whether or not the people involved in the Battle of Womens Bits redux were around for BoWB I? Some of them must have been…

Now I’m confused again.

Also known as: Every other person alive.

I cognitively know that most people think writing is easy, but I continue to be amused by people who don’t read and think they can write.

That would explain a lot of what is out there, though.
I worked in independent bookshops for twelve years and lots of people would come in and talk about the book they’d written/wanted to write/had a sliver of a fart of an idea about writing. The last few years they’d come in with the book they’d written and then vanity pressed into existence. Darlings, that’s not a book. (For those interested in a rant about these “authors” see a previous post of mine.)

People who think they’re writers are easy to spot. First, they don’t read very much because they “don’t want to influence” their own writing. With what? Decent grammar? A knowledge of what’s out there so you don’t repeat what someone else has already done? Heaven forfend.

Then, they can’t wait to talk to you about what they’re going to write–they usually haven’t actually written anything…yet. Which means they probably never will. In Pat Walsh’s excellent book 78 Reasons Why Your Book May Never Be Published and 14 Reasons Why it Just Might the first rule is: Your book will never be published because you haven’t written it yet.

I said that to a recent in-his-dreams writer I was cornered by and he said, “Yeah, you have to write at least a couple hundred words before a publisher will look at it.”

Dude.

This person was going to be soon, in the near future, going to be writing a book about his childhood and he obviously knew nothing about the publishing industry. Or reality. You-wish writers are very often not very familiar with reality. They are also quite impressed with their non-existent book. Usually because they don’t read enough to know 8,942 other people have already written the book they may, possibly begin at some point. Perhaps.

The thing that most annoys the holy pete moss out of me is the smugness with which they talk about their fictional fiction. The most recent time this happened, the not-ever-in-a-million-years guy was hinting about his book–trying to get me to ask questions and treat him like an actual author (I suppose so he could practise for his session on Oprah). All before he’d written word one.

I know that there’s far too much emphasis on the marketing of books but when your mack is polished before you’ve figured out the plot of your novel things have got out of hand.

Nigger.

There. I typed it. I’ve never said it out loud and I don’t believe I’ve ever typed the word before. Then, when I did type it, I felt compelled to give it it’s own paragraph because I didn’t want other words touching it because I so detest the word–it has nothing but negative connotations to me.

Well, New York City has banned the use of the word in an effort to get people to stop using it–simply to think about what they’re going to say prior to saying it. [You’ll pardon me if I put aside for a moment the fact that Noo fuckin’ Yawk is trying to get people to talk nicer and focus on my main point.]

Making the word more taboo, I think, is a horrible idea. As much as I despise the word, I feel that never allowing ‘nice’ people to say it gives all the power to the not nice people. Only ever hearing complete jackholes say the word is going to make me want to hit them that much harder when it comes flying out of their mostly toothless mouths.

Queer, dyke, fag and bitch have all been reclaimed, to some degree, by the people they describe. They can still be used as insults, but they don’t sting nearly as much because they’ve been empowered. If someone calls me a bitch (which of course never happens) I say, “No kidding.” There isn’t the same amount of pride with ‘nigger’. [While I’m messing up my clean language rating I may as well go all out.] I can’t imagine a person laughing and saying, “That’s me!” upon being called that.

The word is used jocularly in other countries–in the popular (and quite hysterical) British film Shaun of the Dead Nick Frost (who is of the white persuasion) squeals up in a car and jumps out shouting, “What up, my niggas?!” I’ve seen the film several times and I always think, “They’d never allow that in an American film.” But in that British comedy it’s no big deal. It’s not used to show the stupidity of a cracker-ass sheriff in the backwoods of the US of Racism–it’s not even directed at a black person. Hell, there aren’t any non-white people with speaking roles in the film (but the flamingly inadequate representation of minorities in British film is another rant for another day.)

The point is, the word *can* be de-powered or re-powered. No one gets bent out of shape when someone says, “The rule of thumb is…” because the original connotation was that it used to be legal for a man to beat his wife as long as he used a rod thinner than his thumb. Give words enough time–and stop making a big deal out of them–and they lose their power.

That said, if this ‘ban’–not really a law because breaking it carries no penalties–is truly about getting people to think before they speak I’m all for it. I’d be happier if most people thought at all.

There’s a quote that goes something like–reading bad books is worse than not reading at all. I suppose the theory is that bad books make you dumber than you were before, whereas if you hadn’t read anything you’d remain at the exact same level of stupid.

I think of that theory whenever someone who seems intelligent says something like, ‘The Da Vinci Code is a great book!’ If I know the person and know he or she isn’t one of the unwashed masses I usually attribute it to most people’s inability to accurately articulate, ‘It had a cliffhanger at the end of every chapter and a neato puzzle in it!’ The thinking is that it was fun so that’s great! Because having fun is great, right?

Then I think of the people who only read one book a year (the national average). And that book was [insert tepid book with massive PR] . Those people probably really do believe Da Vinci was a great book. It’s because they only have five other books to compare it to.

Sorry, I didn’t mean to digress. I started this post with the intention of trying to define what constitutes a ‘good’ book. Or even what means you’re really reading. Recently, in two different realms of my literary life I’ve witnessed conversations about what’s real literature and what makes a person feel they’re really reading. One person considered mysteries to be real lit, which is interesting, because usually mystery writers feel they are not as respected by authors of literary fiction. Other people felt they weren’t really reading if they were reading a non-fiction book. To me, that’s even more readerly.

I think it comes down to how difficult the book is. From school, we associate ‘real’ books with dead writers and pop quizzes and were expected to comprehend themes more likely to be appreciated by people with more life experience. Angela Carter says, ‘Reading a book is like re-writing it for yourself…. You bring to a novel, anything you read, all your experience of the world. You bring your history and you read it in your own terms.’ And if you don’t have much history then you can’t bring as much to what you read.

My point is that reading anything is reading. Sure, there are levels of literature. As listed in The Literature Lover’s Book of Lists, with the note: Readers should move upwards on the literary pyramid. Those who feel less confident might begin at a comfortable level near the bottom and take small steps towards “bette” literature. Of course, these is worthy literature on every step, and each genre has its own classics. In general, however, the more difficult–and ultimately the most rewarding–literature will be nearer the top of the pyramid.

Bottom level: fable, comics, comic book format, limerick, song or ballad

Next level up: melodrama, pop magazine, letter, diary, journal, farce

Next level up: short story, western, mystery, adventure, romance

Next up: novella, autobiography, biography, essay

Next: ode, sonnet, elegy, easy lyric poetry

Next: epic poetry, poetic drama

Next: novel, allegory, satire

Next: literary criticism

Top: classics

Most of the pyramid seems intuitive to me–it makes sense to me, though I’d put graphic novels and some comics a bit higher on the pyramid. I would also move just about any poetry to the second tier with literary criticism, but that could just be my lack of familiarity with poetry.

In these days of video games, TiVo, Netflix and a thousand other ways to be entertained, I suppose I should be happy when I see anyone reading anything; but the Jean Brodie in me will always want readers to read the best books possible. That’s why I’m a bookseller, after all–helping people find books they’ll find rewarding is the best part.

I’ve just come across this article in the magazine associated with BBC News.

It states, quite succinctly, a philosophy I’ve always held, which is that pessimists are far better off than optimists. Two quotes from the article stand out:

“…we are usually cast into gloom not so much by negativity as by hope. It is hope - with regard to our careers, our love lives, our children, our politicians and our planet - that is primarily to blame for angering and embittering us.”

“A pessimistic world view does not have to entail a life stripped of joy. Pessimists can have a far greater capacity for appreciation than their opposite numbers, for they never expect things to turn out well and so may be amazed by the modest successes which occasionally break out across their darkened horizons. ”

I am an enormous cynic. Humanity is capable of a range of actions-both good and bad-and that’s to be expected.

I once worked for a woman who self-identified as being an optimist. I have never met a person more dissatisfied with life. She constantly expected everything to be fantastic and since it almost never is she was upset about it. What bothered me most was that she was in her mid 60s. How does a person live on earth for six decades without realising her optimism is making her miserable.

Whereas, if you expect everything to go horribly, you get to be wrong, but in the best way. And your spirit isn’t crushed when things go badly. So even though the situation is crap, you still get to be right.

And what optimists call pessimism is typically just a reality check.

There are many things about human behaviour I do not understand but this is the most recent one: People who stop speaking to you forevar! if you don’t go to their party.

Really? You’re five? Because I thought you were closer to fifty (or sixty).

I do not understand the ‘normal’ human pout-response if I don’t go to their party. This has happened several times in my life and all by people I thought 1. were mature individuals 2. knew me well enough to know I can’t deal with crowds or unorganised functions. In order to be comfortable I need to know when I get to go home, have a point to being there and know everyone in the room, which must be less than three people. Five at the absolute most, if it’s for a half hour lunch.

Since all the people who have responded in this way have been mature individuals in other respects I can only be led to believe that it’s not about maturity–it’s simply considered impolite by the majority of people to not attend a function thrown by a friend. But why? Why would someone who really cared about you want you to be highly uncomfortable? Is it some sort of proof of your friendship? How can I test their friendship? Making them shut up every time I really want them to be quiet and leave? “Okay, I’ve spent an hour with you now. Bye-bye. … Don’t look at me like that–I went to that loud freakin’ party of yours and did the mindless chatter watusi with people I don’t know for AN HOUR. I now get to tell you when to go away.”

This goes right in with my belief that people lie about how they feel about one another to themselves as well as to the person they say they care about. Or perhaps it’s that I simply don’t ‘get’ the way most people communicate. (That’s probably it, actually.) Twice I’ve been told repeatedly that I was ‘like a daughter’ to two different women. One of them stopped speaking to me after I didn’t go to her party and the other one said no when I asked her to do a minor favour she would have done for one of her real kids. Both of these women had said to me on several occasions (completely sober, as well) that they truly thought of my as a daughter.

So. They’re both liars. I find this interesting, because they’re both honest, trustworthy people. What I’ve learned: When people say you’re important to them it means, ‘You’re important to me as long as you don’t ask for anything and are the person I want you to be.’

The biggest lesson I get from all this is that my company wasn’t important to them in the first place because missing a freakin’ party is nothing. If that’s all it takes to piss you off then I’m better off without you.

Perhaps people try to ‘punish’ me by taking away their friendship. This doesn’t work with me because one less person asking me to do things I don’t want to do is simply that. If you’re waiting for an apology, here it is: I’m sorry you don’t know me well enough to know I’m allergic to parties.

I do like people well enough–if I call them a friend, I mean it. I also feel that, aside from my husband, I only have two real friends (in the analog world–in the digital world I feel I have more). I’ve known one for years and the other is her partner. She knows exactly how I am and doesn’t take it personally. We get together every couple months and it’s just peachy. If she were in a crisis she knows she could come to me and I know the same thing.That is friendship, kids. Not terrorizing one another with things one of you hates. That’s what marriage is for.

This baffled rant brought to you by Orhan Pamuk’s Snow , a quite wonderful book about the political struggles going on in modern day Turkey.

All of the male characters who talk about the women they ‘love’ don’t know those women well. Then they get upset when the women don’t turn out to be the person they fantasized about. This usually is some very small thing they could have learned about the woman if they’d spent any time with said female before they convinced themselves they were in love. Somehow, it’s the woman’s fault when the man is a delusional moron.

If you want to convince yourself you’re meant to be with a person you can’t possibly know then go find a celebrity–that’s what they’re there for–to give you someone impossible to fantasize about. Then back on planet Earth you have to deal with real people who can be hurtful and stupid. Or, you know, simply isn’t your ideal mate.

Though this rant was kicked off by Snow it’s no condemnation of the book–the characters are completely believable–I’ve met several people (male and female) that refuse to get to know a person before deciding said target is their soul mate only to find that pseudo-soul mate is really annoying and a human after all. (I hate when that happens.)

Where does this come from? At first, I attributed it to the fact that the sexes are quite segregated in the society in the novel and so people couldn’t get to know one another and were forced to have relationships mostly in their heads. Then I recalled that I knew quite a few people like that and I live in a society where it’s socially acceptable to sleep with a person the day you meet. So what does that leave us? I mean, besides with a ridiculous rate of STIs and unwanted pregnancies. (Not that those aren’t a total blast, mind.)

Though the love feelings of the male characters takes up a rather small bit of the novel I found myself getting infuriated every time the subject came up. I’ve been on the receiving end of men who’ve spent perhaps ten cumulative hours with me who then tell me they love me and they “know” me so well and we’d be great together if only I wasn’t such a stuck up bitch. My response was, “If I’m such a bitch then you shouldn’t like me so much, no?” The reply: “Yeah, if you’d stop being so cold we’d be great together!”

Translation: Do what I want, when I want and you’ll be perfect.

Yes, except I could also be the next Stepford Wife, too. Any person can be perfect if they’re a complete blank and allow the other person to project whatever traits and prejudices they’d like onto them.

I don’t mean to pick on straight men, here, as I’ve known quite a few women (gay and straight) and gay men who’ve done the exact same thing. Delusion is one of the great equalizers. Every race, creed and religion is capable of being a complete jackass in the face of meeting the perfect lifemate, which fairy stories and Hollywood has told us exists.

So where does this come from? A friend of mine suggests it is “a symptom of a society which teaches its children that everything they do is worthy of attention, everything they want is something they deserve and everything is completely disposable.”

He was then reminded of people on a forum he frequents that “whinge and whine about being alone and never being able to find anyone, because they are not looking for anyone. They are looking for some absolutely specific person that they have made up as the perfect mate. And this thinking isn’t limited to just potential mates. Friends get treated the same way: oh, I really thought this person was nice until I found out *insert some innocuous factoid here* and now I can never hang around with them again!”

It sounds incredibly immature (because it is) but some of these people are in their thirties…or older. People should be over this sort of thing by the time they’re sixteen. Eighteen at the latest.

Is this a contributor to the divorce rate? The person you’re with is supposed to mesh with you so completely that you don’t even need to talk about practicalities of life like money or kids. If you’re meant to be together it’ll work out and if you’re not then you’ll get a divorce and try again. Just keep trying not talking to people before allowing yourself to get emotionally involved and then being shattered when that person has thoughts and feelings you didn’t conceive of.

But wait. Really knowing another person before getting involved isn’t romantic–it isn’t mysterious.

You know what else isn’t mysterious? Alimony payments.

Over a nine-month period, twelve year old Jesse Harding Pomeroy tortured and mutilated several young boys in South Boston. He was sent to a juvenile detention centre and once released (seventeen months later) he immediately mutilated and killed two more children. The authorities blamed the media that he most enjoyed.

That was in 1871. He read violent dime novels.* **

Demon possession and witchcraft was to blame prior to mass media. Or perhaps a person’s humours were out of sorts–too much black bile and you’ve got yourself a psychopath on your hands.

And now we have rock music, rap music, video games^, violent films and all sorts of other things to blame. Blame, blame. blame. That’s how you take control of the problem. Make it something that could have been fixed, noticed, stopped.

Nero, Tiberius and Caligula didn’t need to be told how to kill people. Genghis Kahn would probably enjoy a Tarantino flick or two but he had no problem working out how to be violent on his own.

One thing that all serial killers have in common is that they like hardcore pornography. Anti-pornography people point at that and say: See! It makes people evil!!

Except that by the time a psychopath (not a psychotic, that’s a completely different monster) gets around to finding pornography, he’s already been fantasizing about violence towards women for months, if not years. The pornography is a good sign that they’re already into violence–it doesn’t make them violent.

The other common denominator of all serial killers, most drug users and other people Western society like to hold in superior contempt is an abusive childhood. And I don’t mean the, ‘Daddy hits me with a belt sometimes,’ of the current crop of misery memoirs. I mean things most humans couldn’t even invent. If you bring a child up to feel alienated, abnormal and horrible then they will become just that. Children look to their parents to find out what they’re supposed to be. Daddy’s little princess acts like a princess. Mommy’s little strong man tries to be that for mom. Mummy and Daddy’s evil little bastard who was a waste of oxygen? He ends up on the news wearing a woman-suit.

The parents of the kids who went apeshit at Columbine will say: You blame us?! Yes, I do. Here’s why: those kids were working on their plans for months. No one was talking to them: Hey son, what’ve you been up to? How’s school? Your classmates treat you like shit? Well, let’s figure out a way to constructively deal with that. Even if you didn’t abuse your kids, you weren’t there when they needed you.

This is not to say that all people who listen to death metal and wear black are plotting their revenge on all of society. But if your kid is listening to death metal, wearing all black, never seems happy and has no friends it’s time to step in. Let them know you’re there. If you think they’re being bullied or are depressed, freakin’ say something. Yes, they’ll think you’re an ignorant asshole, but they already think that, so you’ll not ruin your credibility.

What I’m saying is: Quit blaming the media for your embarrassment at not knowing how to talk to your own kids. If someone is going to do evil, they’re going to do evil no matter what they see or hear. Unless the thing they see or hear is a parent saying, “Hey, you know, you seem to be upset a lot. Anything going on? I had a crap time in school, too…”

[The preceding post is not a defense of violence in films–I dislike graphic violence in films but not because I believe it encourages violent behaviour. I dislike it because it inures people to things they should find horrifying. Photos of real war aren’t too bothersome because Oliver Stone did it better. If a person sees enough gratuitous violence he or she will simply shrug–it’s all part of a normal day.]

* Schechter, H. (2003). The Serial Killer Files. New York: Ballantine Books.
** Ramsland, K. (2005). The Human Predator. Penguin.

^ If you think Grand Theft Auto is bad, check out some of these games from the 80s: Harvester, Custer’s Revenge and Chiller. Useful link to video here

Ah, the hypocrisy of modern Western culture. Individuality is supposedly highly valued, but only in ways sanctioned by that great arbiter of taste, the media. Truly independent people are terrifying, as they are unpredictable. Unpredictability requires considering where the other person is coming from rather than mentally filing that person away and being free to ignore all other opinions and actions.

Body modification is an excellent example of this. Plastic surgery is mainstream and acceptable (or at least tolerated), whereas jewellery and ink are outside the mainstream and therefore less acceptable (outside of certain groups). One group has “reality television” shows like Bridalplasty lending it value and the other group is considered to be drug addicts, misanthropes and kids trying to irritate their parents. Body modification is body modification. Silicon-based lifeforms do it in order to fit in and human pincushions do it to express their individuality (usually-more on this later).

Botox is comparable to piercing. Neither are permanent. The difference is that one involves injecting a deadly neurotoxin into your face, lending you slightly less expressive ability than an android; while the other involves having a piece of metal inserted through your flesh, making airport security that much more entertaining. (Breast implants can be added to this list, as they can be undone, as well.) Except a person getting a piercing doesn’t run the risk of dying under anaesthetic. (Is there a worse way to go? Your accomplishments will be overshadowed by the fact that you died for vanity; your inability to be interesting on your own was your downfall.)

Other forms of plastic surgery are comparable to tattoos in that they’re permanent and carry the possibility of looking ridiculous in later age. The difference is that most tattoos can be hidden, but plastic surgery is, on the whole, done with the view to being noticed. My hypothesis is that people who spend that much money on something want to be sure everyone else knows. It’s why some of the most expensive items are also the biggest eyesores. They scream, ‘Lookit meeeee! I have more money than you and, thusly, are better than you!’ Because acquiring lorry loads of money can make those possessing neither talent nor originality feel superior to those with the temerity not to sell out. Of course, some people with both creativity and vision are allowed to cash in, but, more typically, it’s the result of catering to the lowest common denominator with callous manipulation of the unthinking masses thrown in for good measure.

Perhaps a person has a small surgery to correct a minor problem, a deviated septum, for example. Then they have a few more procedures-it’s understandble that a person can get addicted to plastic surgery. Realising that your body is endlessly customisable is quite the revelation. I don’t understand younger people getting plastic surgery before their bodies have finished developing; I think it’s connected to our ‘instant gratification is too slow’ culture. Why wait for anything if you don’t have to?

The general reaction to any type of body mod is telling, as well. I’ve had complete strangers tell me I should remove my piercings or that I should have my tattoos lasered (under the assumption that I must regret them). I would put money on the hypothesis that people with the equivalent amount of plastic surgeries aren’t hassled by strangers. This is because it’s acceptable (nay, admirable) to attempt to fit in, but expressing individuality is to be avoided at all costs. If you have the nerve not to fit in then you might also have unpopular opinions (that you feel you have a right to express, quelle horreur !)

There’s a third group-the ‘rebels’ that gets tattooed and pierced to ‘stand out’ by fitting in with their, equally uninteresting, cohort. They’re not your friends, as real friends would encourage you to be true to yourself. Expecting others to bow to your, clearly superior, fashion sense is a form of insecurity. After all, if others don’t approve of the way you express yourself then perhaps you’re wrong, or worse, unpopular. If no one likes you then you can’t possibly like yourself.

My favourite misconception about the pierced is that because we paid someone to shove a ten-gauge needle through our tender bits we must enjoy pain when women who’ve had plastic surgery have endured infinitely more pain. The same goes for women who’ve experienced childbirth. No one says to a woman with more than one child, ‘Daaaaaamn, you must love pain!’ The results are worth the pain involved. I have had twenty-eight piercings and the majority hurt for a few seconds and were then sore for a few days; tattooes are annoying during application and sunburn-like whilst healing. I’ve not given birth or had plastic surgery, but I’ve had necessary surgery and was in agony for weeks even with pain killers (which distracts from pain without eradicating it). But, yeah, us pierced and tattooed folks are hardcore . And we’re completely fine with that supposition. We’re less likely to get jacked if someone figures the threat of physical pain is no deterrent to us defending ourselves.

Both groups have common ground-the ability to make irreversible mistakes (it’s what tribal tattoos and lasering are for.) And if that surgery you got at twenty-five is looking a bit sad at forty there are always corrective procedures. That tiny butterfly on your lower stomach you got on your eighteenth birthday morphs into Mothra after a couple kids and a few pints of Haagen Dazs and those double-Ds are as subject to gravity in middle age as the real thing. Both groups are peopled with those who make decisions without considering the consequences or even knowing their own motivations.

And that is unforgivable. The only excuse one can have for not knowing themselves is being afraid of what they’ll find out and being too lazy to become the person they want to be. Knowing oneself but choosing not to be true to that self is worse; you’re allowing others (who are as flawed as anyone else) to define you. You’re allowing yourself to be controlled by someone who’d rather focus on other people’s flaws rather than their own. Marcus Aurelius says that a person shouldn’t seek the approval of those they wouldn’t want to emulate. To do so is to disrespect oneself-the only person you have to be with twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

[This post is from an earlier blog]

This baffled rant brought to you by Orhan Pamuk’s Snow , a quite wonderful book about the political struggles going on in modern day Turkey.

All of the male characters who talk about the women they ‘love’ don’t know those women well. Then they get upset when the women don’t turn out to be the person they fantasized about. This usually is some very small thing they could have learned about the woman if they’d spent any time with said female before they convinced themselves they were in love. Somehow, it’s the woman’s fault when the man is a delusional moron.

If you want to convince yourself you’re meant to be with a person you can’t possibly know then go find a celebrity–that’s what they’re there for–to give you someone impossible to fantasize about. Then back on planet Earth you have to deal with real people who can be hurtful and stupid. Or, you know, simply isn’t your ideal mate.

Though this rant was kicked off by Snow it’s no condemnation of the book–the characters are completely believable–I’ve met several people (male and female) that refuse to get to know a person before deciding said target is their soul mate only to find that pseudo-soul mate is really annoying and a human after all. (I hate when that happens.)

Where does this come from? At first, I attributed it to the fact that the sexes are quite segregated in the society in the novel and so people couldn’t get to know one another and were forced to have relationships mostly in their heads. Then I recalled that I knew quite a few people like that and I live in a society where it’s socially acceptable to sleep with a person the day you meet. So what does that leave us? I mean, besides with a ridiculous rate of STIs and unwanted pregnancies. (Not that those aren’t a total blast, mind.)

Though the love feelings of the male characters takes up a rather small bit of the novel I found myself getting infuriated every time the subject came up. I’ve been on the receiving end of men who’ve spent perhaps ten cumulative hours with me who then tell me they love me and they “know” me so well and we’d be great together if only I wasn’t such a stuck up bitch. My response was, “If I’m such a bitch then you shouldn’t like me so much, no?” The reply: “Yeah, if you’d stop being so cold we’d be great together!”

Translation: Do what I want, when I want and you’ll be perfect.
Yes, except I could also be the next Stepford Wife, too. Any person can be perfect if they’re a complete blank and allow the other person to project whatever traits and prejudices they’d like onto them.
I don’t mean to pick on straight men, here, as I’ve known quite a few women (gay and straight) and gay men who’ve done the exact same thing. Delusion is one of the great equalizers. Every race, creed and religion is capable of being a complete jackass in the face of meeting the perfect lifemate, which fairy stories and Hollywood has told us exists.

So where does this come from? A friend of mine suggests it is “a symptom of a society which teaches its children that everything they do is worthy of attention, everything they want is something they deserve and everything is completely disposable.”

He was then reminded of people on a forum he frequents that “whinge and whine about being alone and never being able to find anyone, because they are not looking for anyone. They are looking for some absolutely specific person that they have made up as the perfect mate. And this thinking isn’t limited to just potential mates. Friends get treated the same way: oh, I really thought this person was nice until I found out *insert some innocuous factoid here* and now I can never hang around with them again!”

It sounds incredibly immature (because it is) but some of these people are in their thirties…or older. People should be over this sort of thing by the time they’re sixteen. Eighteen at the latest.

Is this a contributor to the divorce rate? The person you’re with is supposed to mesh with you so completely that you don’t even need to talk about practicalities of life like money or kids. If you’re meant to be together it’ll work out and if you’re not then you’ll get a divorce and try again. Just keep trying not talking to people before allowing yourself to get emotionally involved and then being shattered when that person has thoughts and feelings you didn’t conceive of.

But wait. Really knowing another person before getting involved isn’t romantic–it isn’t mysterious.

You know what else isn’t mysterious? Alimony payments.

[Note: this was written during the time my therapist and psychiatrist were trying to decide if I has schizoid personality disorder. Like Asperger’s, though I had many of the markers, they weren’t severe enough to warrant an actual diagnosis. Still, I believe this is a useful post for the SPDers out there.]

Scenes From a Schizoid Childhood

I received a walkman for my twelfth birthday. I was so happy to be able to tune out the world and wore it everywhere. Mother shouted at me that she’d got it for me to use when I was alone—not when I was around other people. It hadn’t occurred to me not to wear it around other people. I now wear my mp3 player as much as possible—it helps with my ADD as well as keeps me from getting too anxious in crowds or when I have to do something outside of my routine.

A weekend day in the summer when I was about eight. Several family members were at the house, swimming in the back yard. I was minding my own business on my bed and my mother came in and shouted at me that I could be an asshole if I wanted and I should be ashamed of not wanting to spend time with my family. I was at a loss that I had done anything wrong. No one had told me I was supposed to want to spend time with people to whom I had nothing to say. My mother had never called me a name like that before and I didn’t understand what I had done that was so wrong.

As a teenager I was called a snob countless times because I preferred my own company to groups of my peers. I continue to be baffled by how being happy alone makes a person stuck up, as I do not think I am better than other people. I do not think of other people at all, much of the time. And I’m not bothered if they do not think of me.

I am a grown up now and if I want to listen to music all the time I shall. If I don’t want to converse with people I’m not going to feel bad about it. The insecurities of other people are their own look out.