Out here in the real world, I have a bit of a reputation, I think. Not that kind, as far as I know. And, no, that's not an attempt to capitalize on the recently-departed primary meme. Rather, my reputation is for being ... fussy, I suppose. A bit serious-minded. I mean, I'm not a complete stick in the mud. I don't even know that I'm a stick in the mud at all. I'm just not bubbly. I'm not the type of person who regularly guffaws. I do like a good laugh. Monty Python, Douglas Adams, Eddie Izzard: sublimely funny. The ringtone I use for my niece? Beaker, from the Muppet Show. "me me ME me me meeeee!" Not meant to be a commentary on my niece, mind you (uh, as far as I know), though she is 15, so, uh...
Anyway, enough about her. This is my self-indulgent diary. It'll get political in a second, so that might encourage you to leave or stay. Do as you will. My self esteem is secure.
I don't know that I'm overly serious, necessarily, but I do take things seriously. More seriously than most? I dunno, I'll have to depend on your judgment. (Goodness, Carly Simon's "It's Hard to be Tender" just popped up on my iPod. Where the fuck did that come from?)
This occurred to me as I was squabbling with someone about my car. "Get it washed," she said. "It's dirty." I replied that we are currently in a drought in Atlanta, so it doesn't even occur to me to get my car washed. "But," she replied, "they use recycled water!" Ok, I get that, but it still evaporates. And, anyway, recycled or not, when we're in a drought, it just doesn't occur to me to use water in such a frivolous way. So my car is dirty, and I'm not the least bit guilty about it.
I do, however, have some slightly more active dislikes that rise, perhaps, to the level of ... troubling. Put down the phone. You don't need to call the cops on this. I'm not skinning people to make a body suit or anything. Put the lotion in the basket? Not my style.
Anyway, things I don't like, things I take a bit too seriously perhaps, and I'll warn you that some of these might devolve into rants. For your amusement:
Fashion
One of my dearest friends on earth is in the fashion industry, sort of. We often have conversations in which she tells me I need to find my own "personal style". Ok, I can tell you what it is: whatever requires me to spend as little on clothes as possible. This is a world that is rocked by genocide and starvation. Why the fuck should I care that vertical stripes and hedgehog spines are "in" this season. Season my ass. I don't think the Byrds (et cetera) had runways in mind when they sang "There is a season, turn, turn, turn." They were singing about war, peace, love, suffering, not women's shoes and Jos. A. Bank. Fashion. You know what I think when I put on a new shirt? It's not "Damn, I make this look good." No, it's this: Some Vietnamese single mom got paid $0.37 so I could wear this." Ok, maybe she made $0.37 more than she might otherwise have thanks to the new shirt factory, but soon that new shirt factory will employ robots, if they don't already, and I'll feel even guiltier about my indulgence.
Diamonds
It's crushed and heated carbon. Go outside and burn something (no, don't, please). Collect the carbon. Bury it deep in the earth where the pressure and heat are sufficient and in a few million years, zing, you'll have a diamond. Or make an appointment with one of the new companies that is assembling diamonds that are indistinguishable from natural diamonds in little pressure cookers. The point is that it's a crystal made from the same stuff you're made of. Hell, you can even preserve your favorite pet or family member in the form of an artificial diamond if you're so inclined. Google it. It's true. Why the fuck should I spend three months' salary on it? If we're all concerned about having a successful family, shouldn't I invest that salary in, say, a college fund or donating to medical research? By the way, no, I'm not married. Heh, this could be why. But I stick to it! A diamond is not rare, and though it is, in fact, an amazing substance, that amazingness has nothing to do with how pretty and sparkly it is.
Disney
This one will be short. Disney exists for one reason: to turn children into consumers. I consume, I admit it. Just the other day I bought a new receiver for my home. I'm in the market for a new car (more on that in a sec). Maybe Disney is fun. I don't know. I've never been. You know why? In part because of the story I heard the other day: the popular characters, the ones every kid wants to be photographed with? They only come out at a special time, and it costs an extra $200 to stay in the park for the privilege. What? Remember that genocide and starvation? They're still here! I'd rather give that money to a homeless shelter or a presidential candidate who will do far more to improve this world than the other one.
Organic Vegetables
Don't panic. I love organic vegetables. But the fact that we even have the term shows how fucked up this world is. They're vegetables. They're supposed to be organic! They grow. Out of the ground. Powered by the sun! Now, unlike some people, I don't have a problem with genetically engineered food in principle. We've been genetically engineering corn, dogs, and the banana for thousands of years. It's just that the era of rapid genetic engineering has arrived with remarkably few controls and remarkably little oversight. But the simple fact is that all food should be "organic". Except Twizzlers. I don't know what's in those evil things, but I love them. Get this, I bought some microwave popcorn the other day, and the box proudly proclaimed that it had "improved movie theater popcorn flavor." Genocide and starvation! And cancer! And we're spending money to create better movie theater popcorn flavor when we could just go ... to the movie theater! [One little edit: By "They're supposed to be organic!" I don't mean that vegetables not marked as "organic" should be considered organic, or that there's anything wrong with pointing out vegetables that are raised without pesticides and harmful chemicals. I mean that the chemical-soaked garbage that is sold at a lot of grocery stores and big box stores is the fucked up part. Food should be natural. It should be healthful. We shouldn't need the term "organic" ... we should be pointing out the stuff that's not organic. But, given the rancid stuff out there, I'm glad "organic" gets a spotlight.]
Bradford Pears
Ok, look. A Bradford pear is not a tree. My dad calls it "the plastic of the tree world." A tree should be a majestic thing. A rain-drenched tree in Oregon? That's a tree. A silent giant in a New Zealand rain forest? That's a tree. A sickly-yellow Bradford pear? Not a tree. I could rant about exurbia and clear-cutting, but I think ranting about a Bradford pear will suffice.
Our Beloved American Car Culture
This is a difficult one for me, because I love cars. I watch "Top Gear" episodes on YouTube. I buy car magazines. The Audi R8? Drool. BMW 335i? Drool. I don't much like Japanese cars, because most of them, while serviceable and reliable, simply have no soul. And American cars... sigh. I drive a Jeep, but I can't say it touches me in any way. But sweet merciful spaghetti, I was reading a UK car magazine and some of the ads specified how many grams of carbon the cars emit per kilometer. Why can't we do that? Why does Audi, which sells a boatload of diesels in Europe, not sell a diesel here? Why do people overextend themselves on leased cars they can't afford instead of feeding their kids, paying for education, donating to a good cause? Why?! What collective madness has slithered into our culture to convince us that a car not only has to be fast (something I don't really have a problem with, given my interest in being able to extricate myself from stupid situations rapidly if necessary) but also has to be stupid? I was entranced by the Dodge Viper when it came out, but the more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed. What does it do? Why is it necessary?
That's enough for now. I could go on, but you'd start to think I was the Unabomber. I'm just guilty, I guess. I'm not even Catholic! I'm Episcopalian by upbringing: all the fun, half the guilt. But genocide, starvation, war, torture, poverty... all of these make me stop and think that, you know, maybe I don't need to pay an extra $300 for the pearlescent black paint on my new car.
It's not that I'm above frivolous fun. I love me some Lego, and those things are damn expensive. But I wonder what happened to simple pleasures. Reading (yes, yes, bad for trees), a warm fire (yes, yes, bad for the environment), thunderstorms (yes, yes, bad for the victims of flooding and such), giving unconditionally to a stranger (yes yes ... wait, no, there's nothing wrong with that). Anyway, this has been on my mind for a while. We need to learn to examine ourselves. We need to come out of our long national adolescence and learn, finally, that the world doesn't revolve around us, that satisfying our desires often harms others. We need to value fun, value play, but remember that fun and play must not take the place of doing good in the world. I'm a big offender, actually, so this diary is written to me as much as to anyone else, but the point remains. We have a lot to be thankful for in this country. Many of us anyway. But we shouldn't squander those blessings by dancing thoughtlessly through the world while our neighbors and our planet are suffering.
Oh, and remember that drought? Well, we're having at torrential downpour here in Atlanta, so God, if God exists, is having quite a laugh at my expense right now, I think. But I am loving the thunderstorm, even if my cat is a bit ... undecided.
Anyway, that's it. Thanks for reading. Peace, etc.