I've Got Another Thing Comin

I saw a Terminix commercial the other day. It was set to Judas Priest’s You’ve Got Another Thing Comin. It bummed me the fuck out. Of course my first thought was “Oh great, another rock n’ roll band that sold out.” So, like any social-media savvy person of the current day, I posted a status on Facebook relaying my disappointment. What I didn’t expect was to get someone who disagreed with me. (Isn’t that always the way on Facebook…) Anyway, this person, an old friend of mine from my high school days defended Judas Priest and their right to do whatever they want with their music. He asked me if it “tarnished” the music. Yes. Yes it does. In fact, that’s exactly what it does.

While I completely understand what my old friend was saying (he did make some very valid points,) and by no means do I mean him any disrespect (he is a musician as well), but that song is now forever ruined for me. Every time I hear it, I will think of a giant winged insect being hunted by a guy with a tank of poison. Not cool. As I searched for the commercial on the internet (I wanted to view it one more time before writing this blog,) I couldn't seem to find it, but I did come across another Terminix commercial with a song by AC/DC. This broke my heart into a bazillion pieces. Judas Priest was bad enough, but AC/DC?! This is becoming an epidemic! AC/DC, in my humble opinion, are ROCK GODS! I worship those guys! They are definitely in my Top Five Rock Bands of All Time. How could this be? How can I possibly be living in a world where the most rockin' music of my generation (and generations before) is being used to sell bug poison? Am I living in an alternate universe? This is madness! I feel like Dewey Finn screaming at a classroom full of clueless school children "AH! What do they teach in this place!?"

Now, this is not a judgement on these people (I love and respect most of the artists I will mention in this blog) but rather a selfish rant on how it makes me feel. A little piece of me dies inside when I see a Led Zeppelin song being used to sell Cadillacs. Zeppelin is another classic band in my Top Five Rock Bands of All Time. I mean, I get it. The people who are most apt to buy Cadillacs come from the generation when Led Zeppelin was at its prime. The advertising companies are trying to use Rock And Roll to bring on a sense of nostalgia and make all those rich old white guys long for endless summer nights when driving around in your 8-cylinder, gas-guzzling boat with a hot chick in the front and a six-pack in the back was the ultimate status symbol. And they’re smart. They’re smart for doing that, because that is what’s gonna sell their product; I get it. But what about the fans? I mean the real fans? The ones who appreciate the music for what it is. The ones who listened to those songs over and over and over again without ever getting tired of them? The ones who stood in line in freezing cold temperatures to spend a good chunk of their hard-earned money just to be able to get the chance to buy a ticket to their concert? The ones who wallpapered their bedrooms with posters and articles and pictures? The ones whose record collection was their most prized possession?

Music was an enormous part of my childhood and continues to be an ongoing source of inspiration for me and my art. It’s amazing how listening to certain music can instantly put me in a better mood. As an adolescent, I relied heavily on music for a lot of things. It gave me an outlet. It connected me with people. It allowed me to be free. But most importantly, it made me feel good. I had numerous friends who were musicians. I idolized certain rock bands and artists. And it was all because they made me feel something. Something good and worthwhile and valuable.

All I can think when I see a commercial using one of these classic songs today is “My god, Jim Morrison must be turning over in his grave.” For those of you that don’t know the story, in the late 60’s, The Doors sold their song Light My Fire to Buick for use in a commercial for the new Buick Opel. They did this without Jim’s knowledge; it was a deal the other 3 members of the band made without him. Upon learning of the sale, Jim flipped the fuck out, threatening to smash an Opel to pieces as part of his new act. Needless to say, Buick and The Doors parted ways and the song was never used. And although I don’t condone smashing a car to bits to make a point, I get where he was coming from. This music, this art is a very precious thing; a result of the artists’ blood sweat and tears. It stood for something. It stood for freedom and artistic expression and (to use another Dewey-ism) “stickin’ it to the man!” And to use it to sell a car for that very “man” you were trying to “stick it to,” was…well, blasphemous.

In today’s world, the line between artistry and commercialism is so blurred that I think most people don’t even notice it. I remember the first time I saw that Capital One ad with Samuel Jackson. I posted something about that on Facebook, too and was met with some resistance. Again, I get it. People should be allowed to choose what they do with their particular art and I applaud them for being able to get a paycheck from it. Good for them. But, here’s my problem: I have no desire to see the Baddest Mothafucka in the movies pimping a fucking bank. Because, essentially that’s what credit cards are, right? Banks? I mean, for the sweet love of Jesus, Morgan Freeman, I love you dearly and you are one of the coolest, smartest, well-spoken men of our time, but I do not want to see you selling me a Visa card! I want to watch you tell me about the wonders of the universe in Through The Wormhole, I want to watch you light up the screen playing multi-faceted characters, I want to listen as you narrate well...anything. But I do not want you to tell me how great it is to have a fucking Visa card!

Now, there are some exceptions. If the commercial is for a good cause or something meaningful, it doesn’t bother me. Take Sarah McLachlan. Even though I want to stab her in the eye with a sharp object every time one of her “save the animals” commercials comes on, I applaud her for it. She is using her celebrity to better the world we live in. Me getting a Capital One credit card is not going to make the world a better place.

The harsh fact that I've had to come to terms with is that this is the world we now live in, and if I want to be a part of that world, I have to suck it up and deal with it. I have to deal with Matthew McConaughey selling me Lincolns, Scarlett Johansson selling me Sodastreams, Dax Shepard and Kristen Bell selling me Samsung's entire line of products, and Eddie Money selling me auto insurance.

Crap. I think I might have to kill my TV.

Sixteen Pieces

As another holiday season comes to a close, I reflect on all the things one reflects on at Christmastime: The “true” meaning of Christmas. Helping those less fortunate. Gathering with loved ones. Baking cookies. My hypocrisy. Ok, maybe not everyone reflects on their own hypocrisy, but this is something I think about often. Year in and year out, I feel the guilt of my Catholic upbringing creep in as I bake, gift, give and celebrate a holiday I don’t believe in.

A recovering Catholic, I denounced the religion I was born into a long time ago. Some may find it odd that I still celebrate Christmas. Even odder, I have a Nativity scene that I set up every year. Hypocritical? Yes, maybe. Okay, definitely. But there’s more to it than that.

Growing up, I was forced to go to church, make communion, go to confession, etc. etc. Once I reached the age of reason though, and was old enough to think critically about what I was doing, I very easily decided that Catholicism was not for me. I dabbled in various Eastern philosophies over the years, but never found anything that really “fit” until recently. But that’s a story for another day. This blog is about me trying to reconcile the fact that even though I am a pagan, I still have a desire to celebrate “Christmas”.

Christmas is supposed to be about celebrating the birth of the Baby Jesus. I think. I mean, I’m pretty sure. I don’t know. Honestly, I stopped paying attention in CCD class around the age of 7 when I couldn't get acceptable answers to the perfectly rational questions I was asking. Regardless, Christmas is a religious holiday when we are supposed to honor God. Undoubtedly, modern day society has turned Christmas into a commercial shark-tank that pretty much blasphemes the true meaning of the holiday. Personally, neither of these appeals to me much. I have no desire to pick one day of the year to “honor God.” I try to live my life cherishing my idea of “God” every day. Life is full of miracles and surprises; why would I choose just one day of the year to celebrate that? And as for the commercial part…ugh. While I do enjoy giving to others (in fact, this is my favorite part of “Christmas,”) I am appalled at the commerciality of it all.

Christmas means remembering and cherishing the memories I have of being a kid during “the most magical time of the year.” Warm, fuzzy pajamas. A crackling fire. Snow covered lawns. Gramma’s meatballs. Cousins. Mom’s brownie pudding. Decorating the tree with its beautiful smell wafting through the house. Burl Ives singing Christmas songs. Snow forts. Rudolph. Heat Miser. The house smelling of roast turkey. Unpacking the Manger from its box and setting the figurines out for their month-long display. Not celebrating the birth of some guy named Jesus. Who I’m sure was a really cool dude, don’t get me wrong; it’s just not my thing.

I watch attentively, my eyes like saucers as my mother carefully takes the box marked “Manger” off the shelf in the basement that holds the Christmas decorations.

For whatever reason, my mother had labeled the box “Manger,” which, according to Wikipedia means "a feeder that is made of carved stone, wood or metal construction and is used to hold food for animals (as in a stable.)" I guess everyone else would call it “Nativity,” but for purposes of me and my story, it will remain “Manger.”

Each of the sixteen pieces is wrapped in tissue paper, each one a fragile treasure. I try to guess which one is being unwrapped as the tissue paper is slowly removed, one at a time.

It’s funny; I look at it now in a completely different way than I did then. The first thing that strikes me today is the Three Wise Men. One has really dark skin and the other two much lighter. And Mary and Joseph look totally white. Didn't this whole Jesus thing take place in like, I don’t know, a country on the other side of the world where people don’t look….like that? I mean, Jesus was black, right? Hasn't someone already had this argument? I don’t even know what that means. Is it good? Is it bad? I don’t know. I just don’t know. But when I was younger…

There is a little tiny manger in which has been placed a cotton ball to serve as The Savior’s bed.

Ok, I might have made the cotton ball part up. But a cotton ball would be the perfect bed for an inch and a half long Savior, no?

There are Mary and Joseph, both down on bended knees, admiring the new baby Jesus. I love the blue on Mary’s clothes and the purple on Joseph’s. They are so pretty! Next are the three wise men, dressed in red, yellow and blue. They have gifts for the Baby Jesus!

What the hell a baby is gonna do with Frankincense and Myrrh is beyond me…

The colors are so bright! A camel (my personal fave), an ox (a close second, he had springs for horns which are fun to “boing,”) a donkey, a Shepherd and his dog and five sheep. We set them out very carefully, building the scene. Only after everything is in place can we remove the tattered plastic Hollywood Bread bag that my mother has re-used to hold The Hay.

The Hay was the best part. (Well, besides the camel and the ox.) It had a kind of old, but not unpleasant smell that I can only describe as lightly earthy. The first whiff that escaped when the bag was first opened told you that it was undoubtedly Christmastime. I loved to take it out and hold it and smell it.

Very carefully, we place The Hay in between all the figurines. You have to kind of “sprinkle” it because it sticks together. I like to place The Hay right in front of the sheep’s mouths so it looks like they are eating it. You have to be very careful though because it is easy to drop The Hay and make a big mess!

I still have that Hay. It’s got to be almost 50 years old. I’m not kidding. I just turned 44 and my mother had it before I was born. It’s dwindled a bit, what with every year of setting up and taking down, you’re bound to lose a few strands here and there. I mean, it is HAY after all.

All sixteen pieces are now in place and ready for Christmas. The scene is set. Each one has their part.

This is what celebrating Christmas is, and always was about for me. I know it sounds weird, and maybe even blasphemous to some, but I never associated Christmas with anything religious. Do I respect the holiday and the people who do? Yes, of course. But for me, that’s not what Christmas is. It seems I have a different meaning of Christmas than everyone else. But I’m okay with that. Just like each of the sixteen pieces of the Nativity, I have my part. It doesn't matter how others see me or if their opinion of me is true; I celebrate the way I want and I’m okay with that too. What I’m not okay with is giving up a holiday that I love and want to celebrate just because I don’t agree with what it is “supposed” to stand for. As long as I am celebrating in a way that doesn't hurt anyone else, what’s the big deal, right?

And so I will continue to set up my Manger at Christmastime. I mean no disrespect. I take good care of my Manger. I wrap all sixteen pieces carefully in tissue paper and pack them away in a big old shoe-box. The Hollywood Bread bag has since met its demise, but I have a new self-sealing plastic bag that safely stores The Hay. And it gets packed away in the huge plastic bin with all the Christmas decorations, safe and sound.

And waits for next year.

Selfless Acts and Turkey Legs

I had a good Thanksgiving. I did. In my house, nice and comfy, good (and lots!) of food, with two of the people I love most in the world. As I was putting away all the food at the end of the night, I was tempted to throw away the two huge turkey legs from our Thanksgiving feast because I knew they would not get eaten. I stood there, staring at this bird carcass with tons of meat on it. Sure, we would eat a lot of it, make turkey salad (one of our favorites) and maybe some sandwiches, but the legs would sit in the fridge untouched, as they do every year, until they were no longer considered safe to eat and would conveniently find their way to the garbage. I couldn't bring myself to do it. The guilt that I felt even considering throwing them away was awful. A perfectly good bird had given his life so that we could eat; it was deplorable to waste any of that. And even more dreadful a thought: there were so many people who did not have enough to eat; how could I possibly throw away perfectly good food?

The morning after Thanksgiving, I wake with a mission: I am going to take that perfectly good food and give it to someone who needs it. Someone who needs it a lot more than I do. I have two turkey legs, so I will prepare two bags of food and give them to the first two homeless people I see on my way to work. I wonder, “What else can I give them?” I want to give them a Thanksgiving feast, like I was lucky enough to have, but I can’t realistically give them mashed potatoes and stuffing and green bean casserole. Rolls! I have some leftover rolls, those will pack well. I grab the plastic bag filled with the Pillsbury Crescent Rolls and take two out. I roll each one in foil. Hmmm…what else? Banana bread! I baked a fresh one for breakfast yesterday. I cut two generous pieces and wrap them in foil. What else, what else? Oh! I bet anyone would love some fresh baked cookies! I take out the Triple Chocolate cookie dough that I had prepared yesterday and preheat the oven. As I scoop out the batter on to the cookie sheet, I imagine the receiver of my gift enjoying a freshly baked cookie. What’s not to like about a freshly baked Triple Chocolate cookie?!? Let’s see….what else do I have? I make my way over to the pantry, rummaging around through boxes and cans and an old crumpled tortilla chip bag with a few stale crumbs in it. I come across a bag of individual packets of trail mix. I grab two. On my way back to the kitchen I notice the bright orange bowl adorned with bats and skulls, still holding some Halloween candy. I grab six bite-sized Milky Ways. Three each. It crosses my mind that I might be putting in too many sweets. I mean, someone who doesn't eat as often as they should should probably veer more towards the healthy food, no? Ah, fuck it. Everyone deserves a few bite-sized candy bars now and then, right? I return to the kitchen and pop the cookies in the oven.

I finish getting ready for work. The cookies are done. As I let them cool, I lay out all the goodies on the glass-topped bistro table inherited from my cousin. One turkey leg, a crescent roll, a piece of banana bread, 3 bite sized Milky Ways, a little bag of trail mix and 3 homemade triple-chocolate cookies. Hmmm….I’m missing something. I know! Popcorn! I have two gigantic bags of popcorn that are left over from the theatre that we didn't use! I run out to my car and retrieve the enormous bags. Now I need bags to put all this stuff in. I go into the garage and grab a paper Target handle bag and one of those recycled reusable tote bags. I bring them inside and fill them with the feast.

What will the people who I give these to say? How will they act? Will they be thankful? Will I brighten their day? I start thinking about this and wonder. The last two times I drove to work, I saw a lady on the off ramp at Lake Ave holding a cardboard sign that simply said, “Even a smile helps.” I was two lanes over so she didn't see me, but both days I had wished I was in the far right lane so she could have seen me smiling at her. I hope she is there this morning. I want to give her one of these bags.

I gather my things, kiss my husband and my dogs good bye and get in my car. I wonder if I’ll see any homeless people before I get on the freeway. Probably not. I think that I want to give my bags to someone close to my home rather than in Pasadena. I’m not quite sure why. Oh, who cares? A need is a need and whoever I give these bags to will be someone that needs them.

As I exit Lake Ave, I see a man on the ramp over to the far left. It is a 4-lane road and I turn right off the exit to get to work. Not today. I make my way over to the left lane, hoping that the light will be red so I don’t piss off anyone behind me when I stop to hand over my bag. As I get close, I roll down my window and make eye contact with the shabbily-clothed man. I notice that he is missing his right hand. My mind wanders and immediately starts to run through different scenarios. Is he a veteran? Did he do a tour in Iraq or Afghanistan? Did a car bomb explode with one of his buddies in it and he just happened to be far enough away that all the physical damage he incurred was to his right hand? Was he a machinist in his old life (before he became homeless) and had an accident that rendered him unable to work? Did he owe a gambling debt to some Mafioso and was unable to pay so they cut off his hand? The scenarios are endless. I don’t know why my mind works this way, but no matter. I snap myself out of it and smile at him and grab the tote bag from my front seat. As I slow down and come to a stop, I hold the bag out the window and he approaches. He takes the bag and mutters a barely audible “Thank you,” (or at least that’s what I think he said) and immediately turns around.

Wow.

That was kind of anti-climactic. I sit there stunned, not quite knowing what just happened. I’d be lying if I said I wasn't just a little mad. Well, maybe mad is not the right word. Disappointed? No. Something. I don’t know. I was expecting…..well…..more. Does that make me a horrible person? I mean, I don’t know what I thought was gonna happen. Really, did I expect ‘Age of Aquarius’ would start playing as daisies fell from the sky and everyone joined hands and hugged each other? I don’t know. Maybe. But how dare I? I am doing something that is my duty as a human and I expect thanks for it? That’s a little pompous if you ask me. Now I’m feeling horrible about myself. But, time to suppress that shit. I have work to do. There is one more person in need that I have a giant turkey leg for and goddammit, I’m gonna find him!

I make the left off the ramp. I drive a few blocks, knowing I have to turn around and I see another man standing on the opposite side of the street in the median. I bang a U-ey and luckily hit another red light as I pull up to him. I hand him the Target bag. He is so thankful! He tells me thank you and assures me that nothing will go to waste and goes on and on about how great this is and he hopes I have a wonderful day. The light stays red for a minute, so I actually get to chat with him for a brief moment before I continue on to work. He is a nice man. I give him a huge smile and go on my way.

A good feeling starts to creep in and fill the space where the icky one was.

This whole experience causes me to question: Is there any such thing as a selfless act? Not that I’m saying what I did was remotely selfless, because it was not at all; I had more than enough food to give some to someone in need and I did. There’s nothing selfless about that; I didn't give up anything I needed or sacrifice anything. But it did make me think.

Why do people do things to help other people?  Is it because it makes them feel good? If so, then it would cease to be a selfless act. If I do something because it makes me feel good, even if it does help someone else, it would appear that I am doing it to please myself and not someone else, right? But by the same token, if I do something to please someone else and it very much displeases me, is that selfless? If I am doing something to please someone else and it doesn't please me, what kind of person does that make me? I do something good for someone and it makes me feel bad? That is the epitome of selfishness.

Maybe we perform these so-called “selfless acts” so other people will think we’re good. “I’ll do this good thing and then I’ll post it on facebook and everyone will see how wonderful I am!” There seems to be a bit of that going around lately. That’s our ego taking over. We need people to know that we’re good. But does that make us bad people? Not necessarily. But when the need for the approval of others becomes more important than the good deed itself, then we may have a problem.

I don’t know the answer to any of this, but I've come to this conclusion: Feeling good when you do something good for someone else is just like a bonus and not the motivating factor in doing a good deed. The proverbial icing on the cake.

Yeah, I think I like that the best. So I’m gonna keep giving turkey legs to people in need, even if it does make me feel good.

In Love With Jesse Pinkman

How is it possible to love something that doesn’t exist?

I guess that’s the magic of the movies. And TV. And theatre. You get what I mean.

Everybody loves somebody. We love our parents, our children, our siblings, our friends, our dogs. But how can you love something that is make-believe? Something that doesn’t exist in the realm that we inhabit? A writer creates something out of pure imagination, writes it down on paper, and then an actor breathes life into that character. That person doesn’t exist. But we love them anyway. How can we feel such powerful emotion for someone that is not even real?

It’s even common to love people we don’t know. Movie stars, for instance. Even though we don’t know them, we still love them. We know enough facts about their lives to think we can form some kind of opinion about the kind of person they are. For instance, I love Drew Barrymore. Not just as an actor, but as a person. As the person I think she is; the person I perceive her to be. I know that she had a troubled youth, got hooked on alcohol and drugs at a young age, and overcame all that to become a successful actor, director and producer, among other things. I imagine her to be a kind, gentle, fun person who genuinely cares about other people. I love her.

I also love Liam Neeson, but for different reasons. Would I love him to rescue me from a burning building or from crazy Albanian kidnappers? Of course, what girl wouldn’t? He’s handsome, rugged, and a total bad-ass. And that hint of a brogue…how can you not love him? I know that he lost his wife in a skiing accident. And although I haven’t had that same experience, I can imagine what that must be like. The pain that must have caused him is a relatable emotion, and it makes him seem more human, even though he is a “movie star.”

But Drew Barrymore and Liam Neeson are real people. And as naïve as it is to think that I might know what kind of people they are, when I really don’t have a clue (I mean, Drew could be a total monster bitch, Liam a complete douchebag and I’d never know it……) is kind of funny. But nevertheless, I love them.

I also love Jesse Pinkman. Only thing is….he’s not real. He’s made-up. Fictional. Only exists in the world of my imagination. Yet my emotional attachment to him is no less than it is for Drew or Liam. (By the way, for those of you who don’t watch Breaking Bad, Jesse is a character on the show.) I don’t know jack shit about the actor who plays him, Aaron Paul. In fact, I never even heard of him before I started watching Breaking Bad. But the character that he has created has a death-grip on my heart. I’m totally head over heels. Watching this poor kid after his girlfriend dies, witnessing how he pulls the trigger and has to kill an innocent person so he can stay alive, and all the inner demons he has to contend with because of these things that he has gone through. Jesus Christ. It rips your heart out. You just want to hold him and take away his pain. All this emotion, and he’s not even real. Funny thing is, on paper, he’s not even a likeable guy. Actually, he’s kind of a scumbag. He’s a junkie who makes and deals methamphetamine for a living. What’s there to love about that?

Needless to say, my husband and I are totally addicted to this damn show. We watched the first 4 seasons in like 2 weeks, thanks to Netflix. We end every sentence with “Yo!” or “Bitch!” and can’t wait to get home from work to watch another episode. Obsess much?

Dexter would be another good example. I mean, the guy kills people! On a regular basis! Granted, they are “bad guys,” but still, how can you find yourself rooting for someone like that? And I think you’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who watches Dexter that doesn’t love him. Or at least like him a lot. He is a likeable guy, after all. Even if he does chop people up into pieces and throw their bodies in the ocean.

I guess I’ve always had a soft spot for the bad boys. But, I’m talking bad boys that ride Harleys and have tattoos, not ones that make meth and shoot people in the face. So, I guess my question here is twofold: How can we love something that doesn’t exist and how can we love such a “bad” person, even if he is make-believe?

What is it about the human psyche that allows us to sympathize, empathize, and even love characters like this? Surely, if we ran across someone like Jesse Pinkman in real life, we would be disgusted, appalled, and insist he be locked up and the key thrown away. But for whatever reason, we are “allowed” to love these people without any guilt. I guess that’s just the magic of the screen. Or maybe it’s something more. I just don’t know what.

Why I'm Not A Vegetarian

Eating the flesh of another living being. Eating. The flesh. Of another living being. If that’s not nauseating, I don’t know what is. Killing something so you can eat it? What is that about? I mean, who was the first person to even think that?

I guess if you go back to the caveman days, it may have been a little more justifiable. Those guys had to really fight just to stay alive. I mean, the dinosaurs alone must have really given them a hell of a…..oh wait, hold on……never mind, that’s another story. No, but seriously, whatever possessed Homo erectus to think, “hmmm…let’s see, if I take this long stick and sharpen the end to a point, maybe I can thrust it into the side of that buffalo over there. Then, I’ll wait till he dies, cut his flesh off and eat it. Yeah, that sounds like a good plan.” I mean, seriously, WTF?

One time, when I first moved to California, I was home in my little apartment by myself, preparing to roast a chicken. I always loved roast chicken. It reminded me of being a little kid at Gramma’s house. She made the best stuffing! As I hold this once-living bird over the sink to rinse it under the cold running water, it hits me like a ton of bricks. This is utterly revolting. I’ve never really thought about it before, but here I am, holding this once-living, decapitated, gutted and de-feathered creature in my hands, preparing to eat it. What the hell am I doing? What on earth makes me think I have the right to do this?

I grew up eating meat. My whole family and everyone I knew ate meat. It was just something everyone did and everyone accepted. I don’t even think I knew what a vegetarian was. It’s kind of funny, though. My father, who was a police officer for the entirety of my young life, is also a hunter. I always hated the thought of him out there in the woods with his rifle, stalking Bambi. But it wasn’t until I was older that I started to think about what the difference was between “Bambi” and a chicken. They are both living creatures. They both have hearts and brains and feelings. And faces. I used to have a vegetarian friend whose motto was “I don’t eat anything with a face.” I like that. Then my brain travels down the proverbial rabbit-hole of “well, then what is the difference between a chicken and a mouse? Or a mouse and a cockroach?” What, one is cuter than the other? One has soft fur and is more cuddly? That’s the same logic as saying that less attractive people don’t have as much right to life as good-looking people. I mean, seriously, what’s the difference? Why is a cow’s life more precious than a fly’s? These are all living, breathing creatures, why is it okay to kill some, without even thinking about it (i.e. swatting a fly), and completely horrifying to slaughter a cow?

I can’t watch any of those movies or documentaries that deal with meat processing or where our food comes from. I can’t even stand the thought of animals living in less than ideal conditions. I seriously think it would ruin my life if I was forced to watch one of those movies. And I’m not being dramatic, either. The thought of it strikes a chord so deep inside me, that I would be scarred for life if I ever watched it.

It’s all what we’re conditioned to think as children that carries over into our adult life. Most people eat meat without ever thinking about it. And in other parts of the world, they eat things like Guinea Pigs and brains, which may seem revolting to Americans, but is an everyday occurrence and completely “normal” in some countries.

This is interesting to me, because I have always had a rebellious spirit. And by that I don’t mean “Oh look at what a bad-ass rebel I am with all my tattoos and avant-guard way of thinking.” I mean that I have always questioned things, never taken anything at face value, and as a result, pretty much went the opposite way of what I was taught or brought up to believe. I always had to be a little bit different. I was brought up in a very conservative environment; now I am quite liberal. I was raised Catholic; now I subscribe to Paganism. I was silently taught that it was “immoral” to be gay; I am now a huge advocate of gay rights. So why is it that in this one area, I have been unable to turn away from what was engrained in me? Even though the thought of eating meat sickens me, I still do it. Why? Because I like chicken? I love me a good burger? I can’t figure it out. Is it laziness? I wish I knew. How can I continually—daily even—do something that I think is disgusting? I don’t get it.

I am one of those people that keeps a “bug bin” under my sink, and whenever I see a spider or a cricket, or some other insect in my house, I will capture it and put it outside. I yell at my husband if he kills a spider. How then, can I possibly think that it’s okay to eat bacon? I love pigs! And I don’t mean to eat. I always wanted a pot-bellied pig as a pet, but my husband was like, “We are not having a pig in the house.” Is there some part of my brain that shuts off when I eat meat? Do I subconsciously block out the horrific acts done to these animals so that I can eat their flesh? I honestly do not know. I wish someone could explain it to me.

Ralphie

There’s this guy that comes in to the restaurant where I work. I don’t know what his name is, but we call him Ralphie. One of the servers gave him this name because he works at Ralphs supermarket down the street. We know this, not because he’s told us, but because he wears a shirt with the Ralphs logo on it.

Ralphie is, in a word, gross. He’s a big guy with dark hair. He is always unshaven and his clothes do not fit right. His hands are always filthy, his nails caked with dirt, looking like he just clawed his way out of a landfill. He usually has snot all over his face and he looks like he has not showered in months. He never gets a table, only sits at the bar. He is always carrying a newspaper and loves to watch sports on the TV. Mostly ESPN.

On the surface, this sounds revolting, right? Some filthy guy sitting at your bar that you have to wait on, that grosses everybody out and that other customers complain about because he is so unappealing to look at. Yeah. Welcome to my world.

But the intriguing thing about Ralphie is that he is not just some gross guy that comes in to the restaurant. He’s not stupid by any means, but there is definitely something “wrong” with him. I put “wrong” in quotes because I believe that everyone is the way they are supposed to be, and there is no “wrong,” but for the sake of putting it in terms that people will understand, I will say there is something “wrong” with him. He doesn’t speak. He yells incoherently and points to what he wants on the menu. You can kind of make out vague likenesses of words if you pay real close attention, but it’s very difficult. It sounds almost like when a deaf person talks, except much louder.  I’ll admit, the first time he came in and sat at my bar, I was horrified. I had no idea what he was saying and I had to keep asking him over and over. I was beyond embarrassed. I felt horrible that this man was trying to tell me something and I couldn’t understand him. But after a few times, I kind of got the gist of what he wanted.

He usually orders coffee or a Coke. When you put it down in front of him, you have to hold the glass a certain way and do it very quickly, because before you even put the glass or cup down on the counter, he is reaching out for it, and he will touch your hand if you’re not fast enough. You have to walk away when he eats. Unless you have a non-existent gag reflex. It’s one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever seen. He has no manners whatsoever and gets food and drink everywhere, including all over his face. One time he sneezed…….I was mortified. As you can probably guess, he does not have the social skills or wherewithal to cover his nose and mouth when he does this. Thankfully, my fellow server Tony offered to clean it up, because I just couldn’t. He is a saint for that.

Now, it sounds like I may have described someone who is mentally challenged. I mean, obviously, he has the social skills of a 3 year old, but his mind is sharp as a tack. He will recite sports scores to you, tell you who is playing who on a certain day; it’s like he’s a walking sports encyclopedia (I just sang the Jiminy Cricket song in my head as I was typing that word…..) He is very good with numbers, and always pays in cash. If you give him the incorrect amount of change, even by a penny, he will correct you. And he always tips 20%. It’s the strangest thing. Sometimes he’ll disappear for a few months at a time, but he always comes back again. You’ll see him walking around Pasadena, or at Starbucks with his newspaper under his arm, talking--or more accurately--yelling to himself.

I have so many questions about Ralphie. Does he really work at Ralphs? Or did he just get his shirt with the Ralphs logo from Goodwill? And if he does work there, what in the world does he do? Not to be mean, but I definitely don’t want him touching any of the food that I consume. He’s filthy! Where are his parents? Where does he live? Who does he live with? How old is he? Was he like this as a child, or has it gotten worse or better since he’s gotten older? How does he view the world? Does he know that people are disgusted by him? And if so, how does that make him feel?

One of my co-workers told me that he saw Ralphie walking down the street once with someone who appeared to be his mother. She was holding his hand and had her head down, as if ashamed that this was her son. How must that feel? To have a mother that is ashamed of you?

There used to be a bartender that worked at the restaurant. I’ll call this bartender “X.” X does not work there anymore. X would be outright mean and blatantly rude to Ralphie on a regular basis. For no reason other than the fact that he was gross. While I totally get that, and share in the discomfort of having to wait on Ralphie (did I mention that we kept a canister of Clorox Disinfecting Wipes behind the bar and would have to put on rubber gloves and use them to clean up after him after every visit?), it somehow always seemed so wrong to me.  What kind of soulless malcontent do you have to be to treat someone that way? Especially someone who’s “less fortunate” than you? I mean, yes, he’s disgusting, but he is still a human being, right? It broke my heart a little every time I saw X be mean to Ralphie. But, I was just as guilty, I never spoke up to defend him, or told X that such behavior was unacceptable. So, as my penance (no, I’m not Catholic…….I’m a recovering Catholic, so it’s still engrained in my brain….but that’s another story for another day), I try to be extra nice to him whenever he comes in. I try really hard to overlook the fact that he makes me want to gag, and I always smile and act as pleasant as I can. It’s not easy, but don’t I owe it to my fellow human beings to be kind whenever possible? And it’s always possible.

I Hate Pussies

I hate pussies.

 

 

Not nerds or geeks or wimps, Trekkies, or even that peace-preaching pacifist that refuses to fight or say a bad word about anyone, even when he’s getting the shit kicked outta him. I’m not talking about any of those guys. In fact, more power to them. No, I’m talking about the spoiled-rotten kid whose parents were too busy arranging play dates and getting their kids into the best school money can buy to realize that they were turning their kid into a spoiled little bitch. That’s the kind of pussy I’m talking about.

 

 

Working in the food service industry for the past decade, you better believe I’ve seen my share of misbehaved kids. I want to go up to the parents and shake them, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!?!” But god forbid they discipline precious little Dylan/Jacob/Tyler/Logan! No, they’d rather let him run around the restaurant and be a fucking nuisance. I can’t wait for the day when little Dylan/Jacob/Tyler/Logan is running around like a crazed maniac and bumps into a server carrying a hot cup of coffee. Ok, maybe that’s a little harsh, and of course I would never wish pain or harm on any child, but you get what I mean, right? I mean, Jesus Christ, I was a kid once too, and I would never ever in a million years even think of acting that way in public. And I never got hit as a kid, either. Although I know a lot of people my age would agree with me and say, “Yeah, I woulda gotten the shit kicked outta me if I acted like that.” Well, all I needed was the death-look from dear ol’ Dad. He never had to lay a hand on me, all he needed to do was glare at me with that “You better knock it off now!” look in his eye, and I knew I’d better behave. And guess what? I did. So did my brother. And so did (most of) my friends. But of course, this was in the mid 1970’s. Oh, how times have changed.

 

 

Unfortunately for kids in today’s society, it’s not as easy as that anymore. Today, kids live in a world where “every kid makes the team.”  I’m sorry, but that is some bullshit if I ever heard it. Why do we feel it necessary to give every kid a trophy, even if they sucked? It’s fucking stupid. It gives kids a false sense of worth and security that doesn’t exist in the real world. And what happens when these kids grow up and they don’t “make the team,” or “get the trophy?” They become pussies. Whiny, petulant, maladjusted assholes.
 

Whatever happened to kids learning defeat and how to accept it gracefully? “Everyone has to be equal.” Well guess what, motherfucker, everyone isn’t equal, and the sooner your kid learns that, the better off he’ll be. Newsflash! Not all kids are good at sports! Why are we so goddamn afraid to say that? Because kids will get their feelings hurt? Are you fucking kidding me? Isn’t it better that they learn about hurt feelings and that it’s part of life, but it’s okay because you get over it? Isn’t that better than delaying the inevitable and letting them think they’re good at something when they’re really not? Kids are so resilient, they bounce back easily. Especially with some encouragement from Mom or Dad. A kid who learns defeat and how to overcome it early in life is going to be a lot better adjusted and have a lot easier time transitioning into adulthood than one who thinks that he is good at everything and grows up with a sense of entitlement. It seems to me that some parents are putting an awful lot of pressure on themselves to “protect” their kids, when they’re really just protecting themselves.

 

 

You know what I say? So what if little Dylan/Jacob/Tyler/Logan sucks at basketball? Who gives a shit? I’m positive there’s something else he’s good at. Maybe the skinny kid that has one leg longer than the other and wears coke-bottle glasses and can’t run or throw a ball to save his life is a fucking musical genius! Maybe he’s the most insane trumpet player you’ve ever heard! Maybe the girl who’s not nimble enough to be a cheerleader is a math whiz. Maybe, if given the chance, she’ll love science so much that she’ll discover the cure for cancer. Not everybody has to be good at everything. That’s the beauty of living in a society like ours. You can be an individual. You can embrace your uniqueness. Unfortunately, a lot of parents miss the boat on this.

 

 

Now, I’m not saying that all—or even the majority—of parents today are like this. I have many friends and relatives my age who I think are wonderful parents and their kids are lucky as shit to have the privilege of being raised by them. And I’m not saying that these aforementioned parents are intentionally trying to fuck up their kids. But, it’s amazing to me that they don’t realize what kind of people they are turning their kids into. How can they be that blind? Someone needs to slap these people.

 

 

Don’t get me wrong, I am all for giving kids their space and freedom. I think they should be allowed to express themselves artistically or otherwise. I have no problem with tattoos (obviously!), piercings or dying your hair hot pink. But at four years old, a child should maybe be allowed to pick out her own outfit for the day, NOT have the freedom to run rampant like a bat out of hell in a crowded restaurant and speak to adults in a disrespectful way.

 

 

I want to tell today’s youth: Go out and play! Get dirty! Learn some heartache, lose a game! Suck at something, but be proud of yourself for trying! Fall down and skin your knees, shit, break a bone if you have to! Do whatever you can to express your individuality, and above all, HAVE FUN!

 

 

Otherwise, thirty or forty years from now, the world is going to be run by a bunch of spoiled, pussified assholes, and that won’t be any fun for anybody.