A Non-Review of “G.I. Joe: Retaliation”
It’s been a long time since I’ve put up a blog post, but I’m feeling somewhat rejuvenated after a trip to St. Louis. Well, that and I just got all the office computers working again. Nothing makes you have to write like spending a while being unable to write.
While on my trip to the Midwest I had the pleasure of attending an AMC “Dine-In” theater. Before attending a showing, I was skeptical about the experience. Watching a movie while people are walking around serving food? It sounded distracting to my immersive movie-watching experience. Well, I was wrong. It was brilliant. If you’re lucky enough to be able to find an AMC “Dine-In” theater (there’s one in Marina Del Rey that I WILL be attending), you should go. The ticket prices aren’t that much higher, the food prices are comparable to a mid-range family restaurant, and having big, comfortable seats is great. Having a button to push that makes someone show up to refill your soda is even better. Its a bit of decadence that actually made me feel better.
You may notice that, with the exception of the title of this Blog, I haven’t mentioned the movie I saw. That’s partially because of the general pleasant experience of the Dine-In theater itself… I really don’t want to detract from the excellence of the service and comfort it offered with any negativity.
In fact, I generally try to avoid negativity when posting information online. Oh, I’ll make mention of things that annoy me, true, and if something is very personal to me, I may have to engage in some negative commentary to successfully convey my feelings. So, unless it’s something very personal or close to my heart, such as certain political and theological subjects, I try very hard to simply avoid making negative commentary. This can be tricky, at times, because some things that I experience are, in fact, vile in the extreme and require some negative commentary. I might even be tempted to go on at length about the nature of negative commentary itself, rather than bite the bullet and simply say something bad about a book, a game, or in this case, a move.
(Sigh)
The movie I saw was “G. I. Joe: Retaliation.” I’ll try to stay positive, here; if you never saw the first G. I. Joe movie, then “Retaliation” could, potentially, function as an acceptable stand-alone action movie. It has a mixture of humor, action, and a certain amount of pathos and political intrigue that, in combination, has entertainment value. In inclement weather, there are certainly worse ways to pass two hours in a climate-controlled environment than sitting through “G. I. Joe: Retaliation.”
Crap, I’m running out of positive things to say. (If you want the full barrage of my negativity about the experience, drop me a note or something and I’ll unleash).
Rather than talk about the obvious problems of a sequel where the majority of the actors involved in the first movie are no longer involved, I’d like to take a different tack. I’d like to talk about a potential new system for vetting movies. I think this system would greatly improve the quality of many films currently being produced; let me know what you think!
This system kicks in if someone is going to make a movie based on a beloved cartoon, comic-book , or television show, with a large and loyal fan-base. In order to be eligible for all of the permits and such that a movie of this nature requires, it has to pass a simple test.
The director of the movie MUST prepare a reading of the first quarter of the script, which will be presented at a publicly available panel at that year’s Comic-Con in San Diego. At this panel, the director must be sitting in the same room as at least a thousand die-hard fans of the show the movie is based on. They may not have a security wall nor may they have physical guards. They will read the first quarter of their script in this environment. If they can do this, and make it out of the room alive, they can make their movie.
Some people might say that a quarter of the script is too much to reveal; this is possible. Others may cringe at how much damage someone can do with the unread three-quarters of the script. Perhaps they need to present only a general outline of the script. This isn’t really the important part. The minutiae of the procedure can be argued endlessly; what’s important is the philosophy presented.
If the director isn’t fully prepared to stand in a room full of people who love the original show and talk about what they’re prepared to do to it in their movie, at full risk of their own bodily safety, they shouldn’t be allowed to make the movie.
Alternately, I suppose, the director could be hooked up to a polygraph and asked “If I, a loyal fan of the property, go and see your movie, will I have the irresistible urge to track you down and kick you in the groin? Repeatedly?” If they can not truthfully answer “no,” no movie may be made.
I’m just thinking of all of the experiences I’ve had that would never have been, if something like this was in place. “X-Men 3; Actors Leaving a Project” comes to mind. “Batman and Robin.” “Rocky and Bullwinkle.” “Mask” (Cher was great, but WHERE were the flying cars?)
So, while I’m going to try and stay positive about “G. I. Joe: Retaliation,” I WILL say that I don’t think it would have passed the “Comic-Con Unprotected Presentation” test. I shouldn’t have to end a nice evening of comfort and dining with the irresistible urge to kick someone in the groin. Repeatedly.
Theology; Competitive versus Non-Competitive
Long walks always get me thinking. This time of year, they get me to thinking about my father, his passing, and the events surrounding it. We’re nine days from the second anniversary of his passing, and some thoughts have started to percolate through in a meaningful fashion, finally.
In particular, I started to consider the doctrine of competitive theology.
I’ve been around ministers of the faith I was raised in, most often, so that’s where I’ve noticed it the most. It’s around in most sects of Christianity, and it abounds in most monotheistic religions in one fashion or another. I haven’t seen it a lot in the modern day “pagans” I spend time with; I know it’s there in a few polytheistic faiths, but not in the ones I’ve had most contact with.
Now, “competitive theology” is my own term for this doctrine; I’m not sure if there’s a more proper or better term for it, so I’ll go with my own for the moment. This is the doctrine of using every opportunity to promote one’s faith over other faiths, going so far as to slip it into small devotionals, prayers with families, and just about every other duty performed by a minister. I’ll use a personal example.
Most of my family managed to gather at my father’s bedside as he was about to pass. A pastor from a family member’s church, which was NOT close by, dropped everything to join us and pray with us. Do Not Get Me Wrong; I appreciated this more than words could say. My father would have wanted that, and it was a tremendous comfort to us. Even in this prayer, though, the pastor informed us of how good it was that my father was Lutheran, and not some other faith (a few which he mentioned by name), because it meant that my father was going in the right direction, to the right place, at the right time.
He went so far as to say that it was so good he was not Catholic, or some other faith, but Lutheran. To some degree, that’s an important part of the comfort for the grieving; the assurance that my father had all his ducks in a row, and so could proceed to the arms of the loving Father. It’s not something I was really worried about; if my dad wasn’t going to Heaven, than I can’t imagine too many people who’ve got a shot. The competitive comparative, “we are better than them,” rankled me. I let it pass, though. You don’t nitpick theology in that situation.
The same pastor served at my father’s funeral, and again, Do Not Get Me Wrong; it was a beautiful service and it was handled with grace and professionalism. That’s a rare combination, these days, and I was happy to have it. The same comparatives were made during the service, though… “How good that Bill was a Lutheran, and not a (insert other sect and/or faith here).”
Now, when it had been done at my dad’s bedside, that was one thing. One big family unit, all of us raised and/or practicing Lutherans. I had friends at that funeral who were not raised/practicing Lutherans; in fact, I had friends of many faiths (and no faith at all) there. There was a good turnout at the service, which served to remind me of how loved and respected my father had been in just about every aspect of his life. There were people there that I had met as friends of my father through work, who I knew for a fact were not Lutheran, nor Christian. All of these people had to sit through half an hour of being told that the Lutherans had it right, and how good it was to be a Lutheran, and how being a Lutheran meant my father was properly going to Heaven. “How good that Bill was a Lutheran, and not (your religion here).”
My friends and my father’s friends went to that service to honor my father’s memory and to pay their respects, not to have their faith (or lack thereof) castigated. That rankled me more than the bedside prayer service; much more, in fact. It’s been a thorn in my side for a couple of years, now, and I suppose that’s why this post is here. From here, I’m going to get personal, a little angry, and perhaps nasty and petty. Still, this is why I have a blog.
My father’s funeral service was held in the large chapel on the grounds of Forest Lawn in Cypress, California. It was not held in a Lutheran Church, and certainly not in my father’s Home Church. Why was that? It was because my father had no home church at the time, nor was he attending any Lutheran church. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attending a church regularly… he wasn’t attending any church at all. My father, president of a number of different congregations over his church life, member of a number of choirs, dedicated Lutheran and gospel singer extraordinaire, had not set foot in a church in years.
You see, both of his sons had found work with the church. One of them (your truly) worked as a Director of Christian Education for a congregation that my father became a member of, and then the president of. When things went bad for me at that church, the other leaders of the congregation cut him out of the loop and let me go, in perhaps the most demeaning and spiritually damaging way possible. When I left that church, so did my parents.
I won’t discuss the details of what happened to his other son’s involvement with the church organization (not my story to tell), but it was callous, unfair, and petty.
My father occasionally talked about going back to a church he’d used to attend, but never did. The leadership of the church, on every level, had failed his family, and cost them not only their vocations, but also (in one case) their faith.
My father never lost his faith in the triune God or the professed doctrines of the Lutheran Church, but the church itself? They’d lost him, good and proper. They’d lost him by treating people, treating his family, exactly the way they teach you not to treat people. He praised God every day, and professed the need for church in a person’s life constantly. We’re STILL finding index cards and Post-It notes with his beliefs and feelings on them, and they are never-wavering in his belief in God, Church, and Family.
How badly do you have to hurt someone like that to keep them out of a church?
“How good Bill was a Lutheran…”
I understand where the competitive theology comes from. The rest of my family, who are either currently church-goers or who have been attending church for longer than I’ve been alive, didn’t notice it. It came as quite a surprise to the one or two of them I’ve pointed it out to. I’m pretty sure the Pastor didn’t even realize he was engaging in it… it’s just the way you pray. It’s just the way you preach. It’s just the lifelong conditioning in doing things just that way. If you teach someone to say something for a couple of hours a week from the time they can first speak, they’ll say it without thinking. I get that.
Stepping away from the conditioning, though, I can see it pretty clearly. To me, it’s like some obnoxious pop-up ad on a website. “Praise praise praise WE’RE BETTER THAN THEM praise praise.” If I’m being charitable (as Luther’s explanation of the eighth commandment would lead me to be), I have to put it down to tradition and conditioning.
If, however, I’m being cynical (as only someone burned by the church from the inside can be), I have to attribute the competitive theology to something else. I might be tempted to say that competitive theology is a cheap and easy substitute for treating people the way you should.
Oh, sure, you could keep people coming to church by treating them like family, seeing to their troubles, counselling them with love and charity, and modeling the behavior of Christ to each and every person in the congregation, whether they’re members of the congregation or workers in the church, but it’s so much easier to just keep saying “we’re better than them, how good you’re a (insert faith here) and not (insert some other faith).”
All of which is to say that the doctrine of Competitive Theology is pure spiritual laziness. Heck, it’s not just spiritual. It’s distilled laziness… laziness in its purest form.
If you want people to believe that you profess the proper faith, SHOW them. Show them the love and care that your faith can bring. Show them the wisdom of the teachings in how you live and how you act. Treat people the way your faith teaches to treat people. Go the extra mile. Turn the other cheek. Give to charity. Feed the poor. Give up what you have to others who have nothing.
If people see you treating others with this kind of grace and compassion, and doing it with happiness on your face and peace in your heart, THEN they’ll realize that you’ve got something. When they ask you what that something is, THEN you tell them about your church, your faith, and your God.
That’s non-competitive theology; not making favorable comparisons of your faith or promoting an “us over them” viewpoint. It’s not competing at all, but loving and giving and being the person your faith teaches you to be.
It’s going a little beyond “do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” and taking it to “just do it.” Not for reward or compensation or even to show your faith, but because it’s the right thing to do. Do it because of the grace and love that you have been shown, in gratitude and happiness.
<sarcasm>
Or, you know, put the non-believers to the sword and enslave their women and children.
</sarcasm>
If I practiced any theological doctrine these days, I’d have to strive for a non-competitive doctrine. Competitive doctrine is just words, and that’s just lazy.
Not Even Vaguely Serious. Seriously.
This isn’t a serious post. I don’t actually mean to suggest that anything in it should be taken seriously. Honest, this isn’t something that I would actually advocate. That’s Ranty, up there, next to Political Me.
So, I’ve been staying the hell away from commenting about, well, a lot of things. The 2012 presidential election. The Sandy Hook shootings. The Fiscal Cliff. Disasters and people and loads and loads of general dickishness. One reason for this is pure cowardice; I really don’t want to put myself on the opposite side of anyone on any issues, which is a problem if one writes a pithy blog. Having opinions is kind of what blogs are about, and if I’m going to shy away from opinions, then I might as well start compiling recipes or something, in this space.
A number of things have gotten me good and riled up, though. I don’t want to say what they are, really… lots of people are talking about things that upset them. Lots of people, on both sides of the issues, and such statements are usually packed with angry responses full of knee-jerk responses and ill will. That’s what I decided to react to… the reactions to things that people are reacting to.
All of which is to say… maybe we should legalize dueling again.
Now, hear me out on this. I’m not saying that every internet argument should end in bloodshed and tears, here. I’m saying that we should institute a system whereby one can add the weight of pure physical personal responsibility to one’s public voice.
It’s not the kind of thing that anyone can just leap into willy-nilly. That would be irresponsible. There should be a registry for duelists; one would have to be able to prove that they were legally responsible for their own actions and their own safety in order to be registered. No minors or any who are mentally incompetent. Only those who can legally hold themselves as responsible for what they do and what they say. The registry would not be responsible for how well a person can take care of themselves in a fight; a person who is responsible for their own safety needs to be aware of that on their own.
Nor would this need to be some kind of sexist “men only” club. I’ve known as many women who could kick my @$$ as men who could, perhaps more. No, the national dueling registry would be an egalitarian institution.
It would also be almost completely voluntary. Just because it’s there, doesn’t mean that everyone who is able needs to register. Far from it… it’s not for everyone. It WOULD be, however, mandatory for anyone seeking public office. This is an important part of the whole process. If your’e running for public office, your name goes on the dueling registry. If you’re not capable of legally taking responsibility for yourself, then you shouldn’t be running for public office.
Also, if you’re applying for the permits to be involved in a public demonstration or protest, your name goes on the dueling registry.
Now, what does the dueling registry entitle one to, and what are the responsibilities?
Anyone can, of course, post their opinion online, either originating a post or commenting on someone else’s post. Social networks and other sites that have post and comment structures could then add a function where posters can add their Dueling Registry Membership to their profile, which identifies the person making the post or comment. It doesn’t mention their name, just that they are a registered duelist, and that they can be challenged to a duel (by another registered duelist). When someone goes to their social media site or other board, they can filter for posts by registered duelists.
“That post is pure drivel, what the hell? Oh, not a registered duelist, that figures. Let me turn those off.” Why is this a good thing? Because it immediately identifies the post as coming from someone who takes personal responsibility for their statements… they’re not just “putting their money where their mouth is,” they are confirming that they are prepared to cash the check their mouth is writing, so to speak. Either the person making the post is not prepared to take personal responsibility up to and including personal bodily risk for their statements, or they aren’t legally responsible for their own actions. I don’t know… that might cut down on a few posts.
If someone takes enough exception to the post to actually challenge them to a duel over it, the registry would cover the cost of transport to a neutral place and an evening of rest after the travel. They could maintain some nice hotels in some interesting and beautiful places, and pay for the transport and rooms out of their profits… this isn’t my area, but I think that’d be nice of them. The duelists show up, and the offended person officially offers the challenge, and how offended they are.
Are they lightly offended, so that the only thing that matters is who hits (or draws blood) first? That’s a duel to the First Blood.
Are they offended and angered so that they really need to see injury done? Will it be a fight until one opponent simply can not fight any more? That’s a duel to the Second Blood, and someone is going to the hospital.
Is this a level of offense so great that only the death of the opponent will see honor served? That’s a duel to the Third Blood, and any duelist should only get to offer that level of challenge once or twice a year. Duels to the death should be reserved for offenses that injure reputation or honor, or that involve actual injury to self, family, or friends.
Having been challenged, the person who is being challenged then chooses the weapons that will be used in this duel. It might be fisticuffs (although it would more likely involve either wild flailing or mixed martial arts, if not both). It could be knives (while the duelists have their non-weapon-wielding hands tied together), swords (epee’, saber, Katana, or Claymore), or even dueling pistols. One bullet only, please… and assault weapons are in poor taste.
The duel is had, and the results added to the dueling registry. The remaining participant(s) makes their way home, and probably post about how things went online.
Are people going to get hurt? Well, yes, they are. That’s the price of having people put themselves on the line for what they chose to make public.
There’s no more impotent rage at an anonymous internet troll… they can put up a dueling registry number or they can be the victim of a filter or an “ignore” button. Sorry, you’re only here to piss people off; I’ll listen to you when you back up your words with your buttocks.
No more will groups be able to find tremendously offensive venues to spew nonsense and hate and then retreat behind “civilized” society and legal maneuvering. “Oh, you want to protest the funerals of murdered children? Well, just fill in your dueling registry number on this request for a permit to gather in public. While you’re doing that, I’ll go fetch our ‘take-a-number’ machine for all the people who are going to show up to duel you to the death over this.”
People who want to voice strong opinions online might just hit the gym and take some Tae-Bo classes. You’d sure know who your friends were, pretty quick. “Hey, some guy is taking me to Hawaii for a duel over that thing I posted about Socialism. You wanna come along and be my second? All you got to do is hold a baseball bat and make sure none of his boys jump me from behind during the fight.”
People might give a little more thought to what they post online, too. “Man, I’m kind of fired up about this whole financial thing, but I’m not sure I want to take a day off of work to beat someone up over it.”
I know, I know… trying to solve problems of civility with violence seems kind of counter intuitive. I obviously wouldn’t want to actually advocate a system allowing someone to track down and shoot at someone who pissed them off on the internet. That wouldn’t be right; life is sacred, whether I like the person possessing that life or not. Heck, I try to like everybody.
I like to think that there IS some sort of solution to the ridiculously polarized environment our public discourse has become. I hope it doesn’t come to anything like this.
I WOULD be close to the front of the line if a dueling registry DID open, though.
Since July
There was about a six month gap in my posting there. I should probably fill in some of the blanks, now that I’ve gotten the whole pain thing off my chest.
August saw the launch of a project that I’ve been working on for years; the core rulebook of the Victory System. I’m actually really proud of this product; it’s the culmination of not only my writing career, but my gaming career as well.
Along with my partner, Victor Gipson, we took everything that worked from the Inverted 20 System that we created for Hot Chicks: the RPG, threw out all the stuff that didn’t work, and hammered it into a system that could be used for any genre of play. It’s a good start, I think. The next book that we’re producing in that product line, the Victory System Equipment Manual, will flesh out the basics in the core rule book allowing folks to create brand new elements, from swords and guns to castles and spells. I’m hoping that book will be out early next year.
We released the Victory System core at GenCon, this year. I went personally, with the help and support of one of the best people in the world, my friend Lisa. GenCon… well, I’ll mostly sum it up by saying it could have gone better. The Victory System was buried under some VERY excellent competition; next year, I’ll focus more on running events than trying to represent in the Dealer’s Room. GenCon is also the event that mostly wrecked my personal health for the near future, but I’ll do it again in a heartbeat.
In other news; I was, in fact, able to help my good friend Lisa with the roommate issue, and while there have been some hiccups, her health is much better than when last I talked about it. She may be relocating to a locale much nearer to me; her trips out this way have netted her a good group of friends and a support network. She can almost keep up with my wife during one of Anna’s brutal shopping marathons, a rare gift indeed.
My family is doing well; my wife Annalisa is still plugging away at the task of being one of the managers of our apartment building (along with me) and the office manager for the property management company that owns our building (and numerous others). She is ruthlessly active in my son’s Boy Scout pack (or den, or whatever it is Boy Scouts collect in). This is a good thing; camping in the great outdoors is anathema to me. Not only is it beyond my physical capabilities right now, but I like beds and cable tv and room-service. That one scene in the movie adaptation of Johnny Mnemonic where Keanu rants about wanting room service? Yeah, that’s me.
Speaking of my son… Andrew is a sixth-grader now, and attending Jefferson Middle School. He is receiving assistance with this learning disabilities through the school’s resource center, and they are good. I mean they are really good… it takes ‘Drew about two weeks to find a new way around doing his homework, and a new “anti-non-homework” strategy takes only about a day to implement. It doesn’t help, of course, that there’s really nothing new under the sun; I’ve used just about all of the homework-avoidance tactics that he’ll ever know, so he can’t get away with much. He’s doing quite well in school, actually; there are a few things he needs to step up on, but he’s eleven years old. His whole life is about improving, right now. One thing, though…
…that boy is smart. I mean, scary smart. Smart, articulate; if he can learn to write the way he talks, he’s going to be unbeatable. He’s gettin’ a nice desktop computer for Christmas; that’s partially because he’s at the point where he needs one for school, and partially because he constantly outstrips the capabilities of his mother’s computer. I’m extremely proud of that boy, and I need to watch him like a hawk. My friends and I have a pool on how much longer it’s going to be before he starts noticing girls; if I thought that he was wiley when it came to not doing homework, how’s he going to be when he develops an interest in the ladies? If I’m any indication, his mother and I are in for some terrifyingly interesting times.
Let’s see, what else? Work is proceeding apace on a project I can only call the OmniCosm, right now; more on that here when I’ve got more to say on it. For the moment, I’ll just say that it’s been an interesting project in working with a larger group of people than I’m used to.
So, since the day seems to have dawned without the threat of an actual Mayan apocalypse, and Christmas is only four days away, I’ll take this opportunity to wish the world Merry Holidays and Happy Christmas! Now to see how many more projects I can put work into while I still have sunlight.
The Pain Game
First off… wow, I haven’t posted in six months. Time flies when life happens. I’ll have to post a general update on things soon. In the meantime, though, I find I need to talk about pain.
I’ve got this pain, you see. I’m not usually the kind of person to talk about my aches and sniffles, but this is kind of a special, driving, all-encompassing issue. It’s affecting my life and my outlook on life, so I suppose it belongs here, even if just for a completeness of the record. This post is kind of personal, overly-long and, frankly, a boring account of a problem of mine. I promise the next one will be entertaining; you will not offend me in the slightest if you’d like to skip the rest of this one. I doubt I’ll read it again, myself.
As near as I can figure, this pain started about 2002. At first, I thought I’d spontaneously broken a rib somehow. It was a sharp stab right where my lowermost right rib touches the sternum, and it kind of came and went. When it came, though, it laid me out. I first remember feeling it while driving to Las Vegas with my wife Annalisa for a much-needed vacation weekend. I didn’t do much about it at the time; there wasn’t a broken rib, nothing was moving around in a way that it shouldn’t have been, and it seemed to go away when I sat still for a bit. I’ve had pains before, I figured this one would leave like all the rest had.
It didn’t, though.
This pain started to come more often, at inopportune moments. Standing for a long time made it hurt. Long stretches of slow, start-and-stop walking made it hurt. Things that I always enjoyed doing with my wife started to become tortuous. We always enjoyed going to large crafting fairs and home shows and the like; now the pain of slowly wandering miles of aisles of displays either slowed me down or made me forego the events entirely. I used to love going to Harvest Craft Festivals; that was a special thing that I’ve shared with Anna from before our marriage. Can’t do it, now.
The area affected by the pain increased, moving back along that lowermost rib and eventually meeting up with my spine, on the right side, just where the right shoulder-blade meets the spine at the lower inside corner. It usually involves that one spot in the chest, though.
Here, my confidence in the medical profession started to suffer. Yes, it’s 2012. Yes, it still hurts.
As the pain increased, I started a little dance with the local emergency room. Every so often, the pain would get to the point where I am knocked the heck out… whether through system shock or just my brain shutting down to avoid experiencing the pain, I’m not sure. I usually end up in the emergency room, usually at Torrance Memorial. My wife tells them that I have had pain in my chest.
The talented and highly-skilled emergency room goes into action; it’s beautiful to see. I get high-priority triage. Machines get hooked up, stat. An IV is inserted. They check the living hell out of my heart… multiple doctors, EKGs, the machine that goes “PING!” Everything. Then they look at the results, pull out the IV, tell me “your heart is healthy, mister Corum! Good-bye now!”
So, assured of my cardiac health and warm from a healthy dose of morphine, I go home, still having no idea whatsoever about the damn pain in my chest. I know one thing for sure… it ain’t my heart.
So, I talk to the first of a line of family doctors. Why more than one family doctor? Mostly the pain in my chest.
Family doctor one: “Oh, you have pain in your ribs? You have Costochondritus. You should Google that. Good-bye now!”
Family doctor two: “Oh, you have pain in your ribs? Let’s hook you up with a Cardiologist, right now… it could be your heart!’
Family doctor three: “You’re fat.”
Family doctor four: “I’m really super busy right now… if you’ll step over that guy with nine compound fractures that I’ve forced to wait in my office for three hours while I’m on duty at the Hospital, I’ll see what my nurse practitioner can eventually do for you.”
Family doctor five: “You’re fat. Did we check your heart? Because you’re fat. Oh my god… so fat. Sorry, it’s just that… FATTY FATTY FAT FAT FAT! Stop eating. Seriously. Fat. (Sigh). Yup yup yup… SO fat.”
Family doctor six: (The current doctor) “You know, medicine is imperfect, mister Corum.”
At one point, it was determined that I’ve got three herniated discs in my lower back. Painful, put me in the hospital overnight, and had NOTHING to do with the pain that runs from chest to shoulder-blade corner. That netted me some physical therapy (helpful), but because the chest to shoulder-blade pain wasn’t mentioned in the prescription, the lovely folks at Physical Therapy didn’t think they could treat me for it unless I got a separate prescription. By the time I had that prescription, our insurance company started telling us that the physical therapy wasn’t covered by the insurance. Or it was. Maybe. No, no definitely not. But it was. Totally.
After much letter-writing, phone-calling, wringing of hands and gnashing of teeth, it was determined that the physical therapy that I’d had was covered, but it wouldn’t be covered if I ever went back there. So, any form of relief that might have come from there wasn’t going to happen.
I got kind of philosophical about the whole thing, I suppose. Maybe the pain was there to make me take it easy, or to give me something to work past. Maybe I just needed to slow down. When you go ten years waiting for someone who knows what the Hell they’re talking about, and then find out you can’t actually get help from them when you find them, that may be the Universe telling you something. I figured I could live with the pain.
Then I did GenCon. GenCon was an interesting experience for me, this year. I’m not going to go into specifics, but things did not go the way I needed them to. Events conspired to have me standing, on my feet, for about six hours on three of the days I was there. There was a LOT of walking; from the hotel to the convention center, around the convention center, to different events almost a mile apart. I love GenCon, and I’m going to go back, but this trip was everything that makes my pain more intense.
On my trip home, the good folks at Lambert Airport in St. Louis watched me walk up to the ticket counter and asked me if I wanted a wheelchair to get to the gate. The folks at the gate took one look at me, changed my seating to put me closer to the front of the plane, and called LAX to have a wheelchair waiting for me when I got here.
I’ve had some wonderful times here since GenCon, but the whole chest-rib-back thing has only gotten worse.
Fortunately, Family Doctor Six referred me to a pain management specialist who did some things no one else has done yet. He had me take off my shirt. That’s a big one – most of the other doctors I’ve talked to about this pain skipped that step. He looked at the spots where it hurts, manipulated them a bit, had me move in all the ways that hurts the most, and suggested what might be causing the pain.
It may (just may) be a pinched and/or otherwise irritated nerve. I’m going to have an MRI done tomorrow evening which will, hopefully, confirm or deny that diagnosis, and give me some much-needed clarity. There’s actually a path to a solution happening, for the first time in ten years. Good thing, too.
See, I’ve gotten a few prescriptions for medications to help with the pain. I went past Tylenol years ago; now it’s Vicoden and/or Percocet at the very least. I can’t take the pain pills whenever I’d like, thank goodness… I have to be clear-headed to drive my son to school, my wife to work, to work with my co-worker and to keep appointments with friends. Driving hurts, but I can manage it. It’s a good thing that I have the driving to do, because I have a terribly addictive personality. I’ve started to really enjoy how the pain medications make me feel, and that is far from a good thing.
The pain management specialist has prescribed a separate medication which is specifically for nerve pain. It was working very well, for a while, but I’ve gotten used to it. At the moment, I take one dose a day, at night before I go to bed. It makes me pretty drowsy. The pain faded for a while, but it’s back with a vengeance now. The MRI is coming in the nick of time.
So, hopefully, there will shortly be a solution to the pain and a means of relieving it without doping me up to the gills. That would be a lovely Christmas present… anything like progress. If I seem short or irritated, it’s likely either the pain, or the caffeine I have to take in to counteract the drowsiness of the medication. I scared the hell out of my Barista, today, but I contend that I NEEDED twelve shots of espresso. Of course, I AM writing this at darn close to two o’clock in the morning…
So, to close; sorry if I’m short or irritable, sorry if I seem self-centered (more than usual) of late. I’m unaccountably fuzzy in the head and it feels like I fell on a spear a decade ago, but I’m working hard at getting better.
I want the pain to go away… there are three (count ’em, THREE) dojos in Torrance that teach Mantis kung-fu, now, and I want to be well enough to learn the form.
A guy’s gotta have goals, I guess…
On Gary Gygax, on his day
Today is Gary Gygax’s birthday. It’s a day to remember his contributions to culture and society, and a lot of people are being very eloquent in doing so. Me, I’ve got a somewhat personal perspective on the matter, but hey, I have a blog. That’s what I’m supposed to put on it, so they say.
Through the age of eight, I didn’t have too much trouble making friends. There were always kids in the neighborhood I could play with, and “let’s pretend” was my favorite thing to play. Sure, there was plenty of time for toy cars (I preferred Matchbox), cartoons, Tinker Toys and the like, but “let’s pretend” was the best. I could be a cowboy, or a space man, or a detective, or whatever my imagination could create. In those games, I spent time as a mad scientist, a Time Lord, a super hero, and took flights of fancy that left my parents baffled, but satisfied that they had an imaginative child.
Then, my family moved from Cerritos, California to Chesterfield, Missouri in 1976, and the whole world changed.
It was hard for me to meet friends in the new place. The neighborhood was larger, kids my age were fewer and far between, and most of the activities that the locals enjoyed were far more sports-oriented than the activities I enjoyed. “Let’s pretend” was a game for much younger kids, apparently, while a good hearty game of tackle football in a muddy field was a great afternoon. I started to have a bad time.
I was the “new kid” in school, and imagination was far less important than how well you played soccer. Add to that the fact that my exertion asthma wouldn’t be diagnosed for quite some time, and I was an unpopular outcast in record time. There were a few of us outcast kids in the class that I was in at my parochial school, but we were constantly in a brutal fight to not be the one on the bottom of the pile. There’s kind of a sense of personal satisfaction in knowing that you suck as a bully, but that rarely overcomes the shame of what you went through to find that out.
Then, in sixth grade, one of the kids I was less antagonistic with came to school with a local newspaper article about a game that was gaining popularity on college campuses; Dungeons & Dragons. He had a very basic idea of what it was all about, and I was hooked on the concept long before I owned a single book.
After a little wheedling and dealing, my mom purchased me a big desk blotter that was essentially a stack of 24″ by 18″ graph paper. Oh, the dungeons I crafted…
Then there were the books (first edition) and the dice (also first edition) and the miniatures. I owned the official D&D Coloring Book. I didn’t understand all of the material, but I dug into it. It was partially through my struggles with this material that my parents learned that I had undiagnosed learning disabilities (along with the help of very dedicated English teacher). I had always liked to draw, now I had more pure source material for my art and my imagination than I knew what to do with.
In time, I found other people around me who were also fans of D&D, and we played. I acquired new friends, some of whom I have to this day. By the time that Unearthed Arcana and Oriental Adventures came out for Advanced D&D, the gaming was helping me to compensate for my learning disabilities. It was actually kind of like a kung-fu movie where the master hobbles the student during training; because I had to fight so much harder to learn the information, by the time I learned to deal with the disabilities, I was able to develop a powerful grasp of the concepts.
In time, I moved on from Dungeons and Dragons to RPGs in genres that I had more of a personal connection with; I’ve always been more Sci-Fi than Fantasy. Still, D&D was the foundation my gaming career, which has become my vocational career.
Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson showed me a way to take my old “let’s pretend” skills and refine them into a cooperative storytelling experience. I learned to get excited every time a new book came out, to look through illustrations and lists of equipment as if I was in a toy store. My days of “I roll to hit” were very short, followed by my career of “I try to take his hand off on the draw; if I take another minus three, can I do it without even looking at him?” Role Playing Games were more than a new kind of book or activity; they were like a new data-media or transfer protocol. They allowed not only for the transmission of imagination, like you could accomplish with a story or a comic book, but also for people to interact with your imagination. I could invite people into my daydreams.
Being the highly imaginative yet unpopular outsider with learning disabilities was like being locked in a room. I had all of these images and sequences and characters in my head, but I couldn’t share them. I tried to write, and it was almost like sharing the thoughts in my head, but it was incomplete. It was lonely.
After my discovery of RPGs, though, I could sit at a table with a group of friends, and they could walk around in my imagined worlds. I could walk around in their imagined worlds. My characters could be defined in terms that meant they could interact with other people’s characters in a meaningful way. That revelation was so huge that it has shaped the rest of my life.
So, on this day, my warmest “thank you” to Gary Gygax for guiding me out of the prison that my mind and life were becoming.
Knee-Jerk Discourse
I’ve noticed something in recent political discourse. It’s an interesting little study in human behavior, and it bears some examination. It’s really, really annoying.
Say, for example, a person who leans one way or the other in the political spectrum (let’s say, for the sake of example, “left”) states or posts a fact or opinion that they have discovered about the “other side” (for this example, the “right”). This is the most common pattern of response I’ve seen of recent.
Leftist: Hey, that guy on the right did something demonstrably dishonest.
Rightest: Oh yeah? Well, there’s a guy on the left that did even more dishonest things!
Now, it is entirely possible for both of these people to be right. Often, one or both sides are using hearsay evidence or manufactured information to make their point. There’s a lot of that going around now, too, but that’s not what I’m talking about.
Guy One: I like A, and there’s a problem with B.
Guy Two: Well, I like B, and there’s a problem with A!
This happens regardless of the political views held by those engaging in the conversation. Liberal, Conservative, Left, Right… doesn’t matter. This is becoming increasingly common, and this isn’t a discourse. It’s a knee-jerk reflex. No matter how much research and thought goes into the second statement, it isn’t a discussion of the first statement. It doesn’t answer charges levied by the first statement, and in the end, there may be a good deal of conflict, but nothing has been resolved. There are no answers, and without answers, there are no solutions.
We’re not in a good time in the history of our country. We have a lot of problems to solve and issues to deal with. Income inequality, campaign finance, the general function of the government on which we rely; these things are all extremely difficult issues. There may be solutions out there, but people aren’t looking at solutions. They’re looking for a fight.
Now, I understand that there’s a lot of benefit to a system of multiple political parties. Having numerous points of view and different approaches to problems can allow for the reasoned and thoughtful solution to a great many problems; debate can lead to enlightenment. That’s when it works right, and it isn’t working right at the moment.
Regardless of the problems of our government, the way that seemingly reasonable, intelligent people deal with what little information we can get our hands on is an excellent model of how to not solve a damn thing.
I’m going to go to a specific example. It’s a bit left-centric, but so am I. I apologize if there’s any offense.
In fairly recent news, the Romney campaign and many Republicans have claimed that the Obama Administration has presided over the greatest increase in government spending in the history of the nation. A number of internet “Fact Checking” sources have stepped forward to say that this appears not to be true. In some cases, it appears that the opposite is true.
Link for those who believe Politifact is generally reliable.
This bears some discussion; this is a fairly major claim being made by the Republican front-runner for the presidency. It measures his general level of honesty and financial/economic competence. There are a lot of different means of analysis for the data presented; it’s not difficult to look into this and produce a sufficient quantity of material for serious debate. Is it merely a “point of view” thing, where different systems of analysis generate conclusions that are correct for their means of analysis and not for others, or is it a calculated falsehood? Either is a possibility, but it doesn’t really matter.
In at least one case that I witnessed online, a response to a posting on the Article In Question, the immediate knee-jerk response was, essentially, “Oh yeah? Well, Obama lies too!” This link was included.
From there, it descended into an argument… a pointless barrage of mud-slinging that completely obfuscated the original point being made by the poster. Any hope of the people involved having a reasoned discourse on the original article was gone; instead, it became purely a matter of “well, your guy is a dick too, so there” on BOTH sides, and everyone walking away with a firmer dedication to the fact that their side is being horribly victimized.
(Sigh)
I was not a supporter of former president Bush, but I spent a good deal of time with people who were. It was not, however, possible to have a reasoned discourse on the subject of errors that Bush might have been engaging in. Instead, for every difficulty with the former president’s choices or performance I voiced, the answer began with “Well, Clinton did this thing…”
Oddly enough, it’s the same people who answered every Bush statement with a Clinton accusation who are now the most vocal proponents of the “How long are we going to blame Bush for Obama’s mistakes?” crowd.
Here’s why this is so damn annoying. When someone answers a statement or accusation about one side or the other with a generally unrelated accusation of the other side, they believe that what they are saying, in essence, is generally “we need to be completely fair in assigning blame and looking for problems, so looking at one side without looking at the other is going to be unproductive.”
What they are actually saying is “my side has been behaving like a group of drunken Marmosets doped up on Meth and Viagra and can’t stand up to any actual analysis of their actions, so HEY! HEY! LOOK OVER THERE! MONKEY WITH A MOHAWK!”
There are a LOT of things that president Obama has done that I’m not happy with. I’ll be happy to discuss that displeasure with someone who asks me about them.
I’m unhappy with the Democratic party. If someone would like to discuss my specific unhappiness with that party, catch me at a con or something and buy me a coffee. My opinions are cheap.
I’d like to discuss difficulties with the Republican party and their candidates as well. I really try not to bring it up too much, though, because as soon as I do, someone is going to start a statement with “well, Obama…” and I’m going to have to slowly count to ten to avoid performing an act of violence. I’ll be happy to discuss issues with the president, honestly. First, though, is there a reasoned response to my difficulty with the Republican party and/or their candidates? No? Then just say so.
I would vastly prefer someone to say “I prefer not to discuss that,” or “I’m uncomfortable with that subject, can we please not have this conversation?” Heck, a reasoned defense of the Republican party and/or their candidates would be awesome! I’d like to actually engage in the kind of constructive discourse that can lead to a mutual understanding and perhaps point at solutions, whether there’s any hope of them actually being implemented or not.
The knee-jerk reaction of pointing at the other side and making a counter-accusation without dealing with the issue currently on the table is more than destructive to discourse. It smacks of mindless jingoism, which not only undermines one’s position in a debate, it removes any concept of them as a person capable of rational debate.
Oh, sure, make a note to bring that point up. It may be a good point. But answer the original subject of conversation first, or as well. That way, we can have two reasonable conversations that can end up being intellectually stimulating and forward-moving, as opposed to one conversation descending into name-calling and the confirmation of mutually negative opinions.
And if I, myself should happen to slip, and engage in knee-jerk discourse, well, feel free to… LOOK! LOOK! MONKEY WITH A MOHAWK!
Less a meal and more a religious experience
Here’s as good an opportunity as any to test out my new icon, the Hungry Roger! Yes, I need to talk food, because I may have just eaten the best thing I’ve ever eaten.
I saw a segment on a Travel Channel show about Food Trucks a week or so ago. The segment featured a truck called Baby’s Badass Burgers.
I mentioned it to my partner Vic, who said “We’re goin’, right?”
Hence, today, we made the trek to the burger truck. It was not a dissapointment.
Finding where the truck would be, and getting to it, gave me flashbacks to the movie Krull. When I showed up at Vic’s house, this morning, I felt like I should be holding a handfull of red sand and shouting “At eleven thirty, the truck will be in West Hollywood!”
(Yes, I just made a “Krull” reference in a foodie post. I’m nothing if not eclectic. Yay, Burger Krull!)
It was not a short drive, nor a fast one. The 405 is a harsh mistress at the best of times… at between 9:00 and 10:00 AM mid-week it’s downright anti-social. Still, we made it with nearly an hour to spare, found the truck, and waited for them to open.
The smell alone was enough to make our stomachs try to leap up our throats and demand service. It was beef and bacon and grease and black pepper, and the longer we waited, the better the smell got. There was a point where I was thinking that it was becoming so intense that it might actually become a little unpleasant, but it only kept getting better. We had a lovely place to sit in the shade on one of the most temperate days we’ve seen this year, so there was no reason not to sit back and simply enjoy the day and the smells of cooking meat.
When they opened, I went for broke and ordered “The Cougar.” $15.00 seems pricey for a burger (that’s just the burger, no fries or drink), until you see that the Cougar is made with aged beef and is covered in St. Andre’s cheese and, honest to God, black truffles. Because frankly, if I’m going to drive for an hour to get to a burger place, I’m getting the best lookin’ thing I can get. I wasn’t dissapointed… no, not in the least.
The Cougar is about the most expensive thing on the menu. Their fries, which are amazing in and of themselves, come in at two bucks an order, and most of the burgers range from seven to ten dollars. The burgers are all made from a half-pound of quality beef and served on King’s Hawaiian buns, and they are cooked to perfection. I don’t mean “they are cooked really well” or “they are cooked the way I, personally, enjoy a burger,” I mean they are cooked to perfection. The beef is seasoned with just the right amount of seasoning, retaining the flavor of the meat, and cooked-through in a thick patty that is toothsome, tender, and juicy all at the same time. The softness and sweetness of the bun accentuates the burger ideally.
These folks are voted the best burger in Los Angeles (by the Travel Channel) and I have to agree. After I’d eaten my burger, I had to ask to talk to the cook. I had to tell him what he’d accomplished.
I told him that my grandfather had worked as a short order cook in one of the only diners to make a profit during the Great Depression. I had to tell him that my grandfather’s hamburgers, famous in my family, were the best hamburgers I had ever eaten. Until today.
Sorry, Grandpa George; your burgers are still one of my favorite foods of all time, and I’ll still try to duplicate their amazingness in my own kitchen, but it was like these people started where you left off, and took it to all new heights.
I’ve been having little aftershocks along my tastebuds in the hours since I had my burger, today. I can compare the eating experience to a lot of things; it was almost like a religious experience for my Foodie soul. It was like an entire meal served on a bun. It was like a memorial to my grandfather and all of the best hamburger chefs I have ever eaten the work of, all at once. But I’m beating around the bush. There is one comparison that is the only adequate comparison I can make.
Eating this burger was like sex, and good sex at that. I had to really concentrate to slow down, so I wouldn’t finish it too fast. I needed a rest afterwards, maybe a nap, but I had to get in my car and go home. Ever since I ate the burger, my mind has been replaying the sensations of eating it to the point where I can almost taste it again, can almost feel the sensation of the meat breaking apart in my mouth or the bun tearing under my teeth, and those sensations give me a little involuntary shudder. I just had another one, describing it. I wished that I was in good enough shape to have another burger immediately afterward.
This is Vic and me in the afterglow of eating one of the best things I’ve ever eaten, if not the very best thing. I eat a lot of good things, so it might still be hyperbolic of me to say that the half-pound burger covered in St. Andre cheese and black truffles was the very best… no, sorry, scratch that. The burger I had today was the best thing I’ve eaten to date.
That’s Anna, the lovely lady who took Vic’s and my orders. She was not only polite, but personable, friendly, and she made us feel like valued customers. The customer service was excellent; it only made the burger experience, on the whole, that much better.
If you visit their website (above), you will see where their truck is going to be. You too can play “Burger Krull,” and plan an expedition to rendezvous with the big pink truck. If you’re in the Los Angeles area, as a resident or a visitor, you really can’t afford not to. I’m serious, this shouldn’t even be a choice. A burger from this truck should be mandatory for people who eat.
If you visit me, we are going. Just accept your fate. Search your hunger, you know it to be true.
While thanking the cook and other staff, I informed these folks that they had not merely made us customers, today… they made us regulars. I figure Vic and I can have a Burger Krull adventure a couple of times a month… more than that, and it’d eat into both the gas budget and the weight-loss plans.
Not that it wouldn’t be worth it.
So, after my last blog post on Helplessness, I really needed a boost. Fortunately, I was scheduled for my weekly lunch-date with one of my best friends; let’s call her Kyrene, ’cause that’s what she goes by on the net.
She had revealed to me, days earlier, that she had a coupon for a little place not far from where I live; an old-style Mexican Restaurant in classic ’70’s style. (If you have one of these in your town, I urge you to patronize the crap out of it; the world can’t have enough classic ’70’s Mexican Restaurant and Cantinas). There’s nothing like a good coupon to inspire one to try a new place, and I HAVE wanted to try this place for a while. It looked expensive, though, and it was across the street from a Der Wienerschnitzel. In my personal hard economic times (now in their tenth year), a choice between a fancy looking Mexican Restaurant and five Chilli Burgers for five dollars is pretty much automatically made for me by my wallet.
Not this time, though. Kyrene and I arrived at the Cantina slightly before it opened, and it was pretty amazing just waiting outside. Wavy brick work, faux poorly-applied stucco, hand-carved wooden benches for waiting; yes, this was the place to throw off my sense of helplessness and rage. The only thing that could have made it better is if I’d have not been driving; a big, fancy Margarita has been known, on rare occasions, to raise my mood.
We’re let in, we’re seated, and we look over the menu. It’s really kind of reasonable, but we have a coupon. Not just any coupon, but a “buy any entree, and get a second entree of equal or lesser value for $3.99” coupon. The photons of light reflecting off of menu items that had reasonable prices just skittered off of my retina, repelled by the power of that coupon. I was there to improve my mood, and no reasonably priced entree was likely to do that.
In fact, I was going to need more than food. Don’t get me wrong – the food at the place is really excellent. Hell, the chips and salsa that they set on the table is among the best I’ve ever had at a Mexican Restaurant, and I’ve been eating at Mexican Restaurants for over four decades (I started early). The chips were freshly made, lightly salted, and came in precariously tiny amounts to whet my appetite. The salsa was so exceptional that after I’d eaten the most solid parts out of it with my half of the chips, I could not resist the urge to pick up the little plastic faux lava salsa bowl and take the liquid remainder as a shot. And then, the moment that I’d set down the bowl and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, the server was there to take away the empty chip basket and salsa bowls and set down a fresh set. This place is THAT kind of Mexican Restaurant; they’ve been doing this for about as long as I’ve been eating Mexican Restaurant food, and they’re as good at making it as I am at eating it.
Food alone was not going to elevate my mood, though, no matter how good. So, I performed a little magick. That’s right, I used a “k.” Real magick. Proper will-working, affecting a change in myself and the universe around me by an act of will. It wasn’t a hard spell to cast, and you can do it too. Here’s how.
Step One: Have about fifteen bucks to spend. Twenty is better, ’cause you’ll also want something to drink, and don’t forget to leave a nice tip.
Step Two: Go to a Mexican Restaurant… a chain restaurant will do, but a little local place is even better.
Step Three: When the server comes to your table and asks what you want to eat, you look at him and say “I’ll have the fajitas, please.”
Step Four: Sit back and wait a little bit for the kitchen to prepare your fajitas.
Step Five: Smile when you hear the sizzle.
There is an immediate effect. You see, not only are you about to be served one of the most delicious things, by default, on any Mexican Restaurant’s menu; that’s a big part of it, though. No, the bigger effect comes from watching the passage of your fajitas from the kitchen to your table.
Heads turn. Noses cant up into the air, to catch the smell of sizzling meat and vegetables as they pass by. Faces peek around the edges of booth benches. The server, hand clad in protective gear, leaves a trail of steam and the odor of frying peppers, onions, and meat like a giant arrow in the air, and then, the arrow points to you.
If you’re at a better restaurant, they’ve already set up a little stand for your very hot iron skillet, maybe with a candle or other heat source under it. The skillet gets set down, and the server pronounces a universal blessing on your enjoyment of the meal.
“Careful, this plate is really hot,” they will say.
Then there’s a moment. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for, as you lift the lid on the container of tortillas, close your eyes to smell the iron skillet of meat and vegetables, and reach for your fork. In that moment, every eye around you is still lingering in your direction, every nostril is still flared, trying to get one last scent, and there’s a thought shared by (almost) everyone around you. If you’re lucky, and the table is quiet, you may hear someone voice it.
“That’s what I should have ordered,” is the thought.
For a moment, a shining, glorious moment, you’re the person who made the best choice in the place. You are the focus of appreciation, consensus, and yes, even a little envy. The culinary energies of the diners assembled around you is focused on you, and how damn good those freakin’ fajitas smell.
The only people immune to this effect are, of course, those who have already ordered fajitas. Still, with those lucky people, you share an amazing and common bond. You are in the fellowship of those who made the best choice in the place.
You have just performed a powerful act. All around you, in the minds of those who have been affected, choices are changing. “Well, I was going to get the tostada salad, but damn, those fajitas look AWESOME.” Even people who may already have ordered are thinking, even if only for a moment, of flagging down the server, and changing their order to the fajitas. You’ve altered the course of choice and lunch destiny.
Eating the fajitas might almost be an anticlimax, but they’re so damn good that they fulfill every promise made by the sizzling and scent of the skillet. It’s is nigh scientifically impossible to be unhappy or dissatisfied after eating a plate of fajitas. Even better, this particular day, I ordered the fajitas fantastico, which featured marinated chicken, marinated steak, AND jumbo shrimp.
And, as if the amount of focus and envy that I had earned wasn’t enough, Kyrene ordered the same thing. The restaurant wasn’t crowded at the time, but EVERY eye and nose in the place pointed at our table.
Now, tomorrow morning, I’m getting on an airplane and travelling about eighteen hundred miles to help my friend Lisa in St. Louis. That feeling of helplessness that has been gnawing at me will finally be dealt with, and hopefully, I’ll be able to see her through the problems that have been plauging her. A lot of thought and effort has gone into the preparation for this trip; it’s not going to be an easy one.
When I look at the things that have given me the strength to persevere, and the confidence to know that I can make a difference in my good friend’s life, I look back at Kyrene, holding up a coupon salvaged from a local magazine, and saying “have you heard of this place?” I look back at visiting a restaurant that had been out of my reach, and I look back on saying “I’ll have the fajitas, please.”
For those of you who tend to doubt the existence of real magick, who will attribute my feeling of empowerment to the benefits of positive group attention and the flow of Endorphins, I say to you “you say potato, I say fajitas.”
A Special Kind of Helpless
There’s a lot going on in the world, in a lot of different areas. Politics, religion, business, the economy… areas that I see out of the corner of my eye every day. When you spend your days at a computer connected to the internet, you absorb a lot of news. Heck, I write a game set in a dystopian near-future; if you added some demons and aliens to current news coverage, I’d practically be a visionary.
It’s not uncommon that I spend a little while at night, laying in bed, feeling immensely helpless to affect the future that my son is inheriting from me. It’s an uncomfortable, general feeling of helplessness. It’s a fairly common condition, though. A lot of people deal with it by taking an extreme view of one side of a highly polarized modern issue, and filling their Facebook feed with demotivational posters that support their viewpoint. Me, I write a pithy blog.
That’s not the kind of helplessness that has me in an icy grip at the moment. The “the world is going to Hell in a handbasket” helplessness is something that I’ve almost gotten used to. No, there’s something a lot more personal going on, right now, and in the absence of being able to teleport or perform long-distance magical healing rituals, I’m going to have to write in my pithy blog to try and deal with it.
There’s a person in my life who is exceptionally special to me. I form very strong attachments, and there are people special to me all around me; my beautiful wife Annalisa, my incredibly imaginative son Andrew, my talented and brilliant partner Vic, my best friend Mandy, the incredibly supportive and able Twisted Joe and his family, my strong and wonderful mother, and many others. The majority of people who are important to me are within arm’s reach, no more than a day’s drive (or much less) from where I live. I’m immensely lucky.
There’s a person, however, who holds a unique place in my heart, mind, and soul. Twenty-five years ago in St. Louis, she was one of my first real relationships, and back then, I was something of an idiot. She charitably tells me that I was just young; I feel compelled to remind her that I was not only young, but I was clueless and stupid. I ended our relationship because I believed I could “trade up,” and as a result, my life hit the craggy rocks below and exploded. When I was at my lowest; at the point where I was only one bad decision and one rainy day away from taking my own life, this wonderful person showed back up in my life, picked me up out of the gutter, dusted me off, placed me shakily on my feet, and pushed me onto a plane to Los Angeles. Saved my life, she did.
She’s gone through some very hard times, lately, and she’s reached out to me for help and support. She’s still in St. Louis, but thanks to the wonder of the internet and long range telecommunications, she’s become a member of my family. She’s a surrogate aunty to my son, one of my wife’s staunchest supporters, and well-known and liked in my circle of closest friends. We talk often, and I have, indeed, managed to help her past some very difficult times.
She’s currently undergoing a difficult situation with a hostile roommate. The roommate is in the process of leaving, but she is doing so in the most passive-aggressive, psychologically demeaning and degrading ways she can possibly arrange.
Lisa, my friend and the woman who saved my life when she had every reason (and every right) to watch me burn as she danced and laughed, is recovering from a major surgery… complications from a lap-band that slipped and malfunctioned dangerously. She’s lucky to be alive to begin with. Thanks to the way that the roommate has comported herself in this situation (which is, frankly, the reason she has to leave to begin with), Lisa over-strained herself. I had to yell at her for ten minutes, last night, to get her to call an ambulance and get to the hospital. It’s a good thing she did, too… she was immediately admitted, and is under treatment and observation. I don’t have a lot of information, at this point.
In short… someone hurt her. Someone poked and prodded and goaded her until she strained herself into a hospital room, when she was already weak and trying to recover. Someone kicked her when she was down, and didn’t stop kicking until she had to go to the ER. It’s probably a good thing that I’m roughly two thousand miles away, right now.
It’s also a bad thing. It’s not like I can pack up the car and drive overnight to get there. I don’t have the resources to drop everything and hop on a plane. There are plans in place which will have me visiting St. Louis at the end of the month, briefly, to try and help things transition smoothly. Ten days from now.
I got a brief text from Lisa today. She’s in the hospital, she’s weak, and trying to rest. I’m stewing in my own juices, here, fighting the impulse to rage and throw things. That’s not going to help anyone, and with the way I don’t keep myself in any kind of shape, I’d be just as likely to end up in the hospital myself. Anger is generally self-destructive if you don’t keep a handle on it, I’ve found.
No, I’m filling my days with doing writing and art, putting together new products and polishing large projects. When I’m too mad to do that, I log into Star Wars; The Old Republic, select my Sith Warrior character, and murder digital people without let or hindrance for a while. All of which accomplishes things, more or less, and I am getting things done.
I’m just not helping my unique and injured friend.
My wife is more than supportive of my going out to help; we’ve arranged the trip at the end of the month so Anna can handle her schedule in my brief absence. Anna’s good like that; she understands how important my friends are to me. In ten days, there’ll be a boarding pass waiting for me when I go to the airport, and that helps somewhat. I’ll be going, I’ll be helping.
It’s just that she’s in a hospital bed right now, as I type, and I don’t know what her condition is or how well she’s doing. Her mother is with her, but her mother and any helpful skills like using a cell phone don’t stay in the same Zip Code. I’m putting off going to bed, because that once-a-night feeling of general helplessness at the state of the world is being joined by a bigger, harsher feeling of helplessness; a personal feeling of helplessness that I am currently powerless to affect.
That, and the anger. With a special kind of helplessness comes a special kind of anger. A slow, seething, thoughtful, meditative anger. The kind of anger that makes you do sit-ups and study engineering.
All of which is to say, “do not hurt my friends.”
Matters of deCorum 