A Generation without Heroes:

A Generation without Heroes:

Because everyone's just too scared to be one.

So, the election is over. It's going to be another four years of bellyaching, cock-blocking, and elevated racial tensions -- and I don't think any of that was dependent on who won or lost. I actually waived my rights as an American citizen this year, and opted not to vote. Why? I didn't like any of my choices, for anything. The democratic process of representation is designed to maximize the happiness of all by finding a candidate best suited to the needs of its people and I, this year especially, find myself harshly at odds with what those needs are, and what is 'best' for the country in which I reside. This isn't at all an uncommon event, but I find it's much more starkly painted in recent months than it has been in quite some time.

With election time looming and life taking all kinds of twisted spirals, I shut myself down from the technological world. I spent a near month without the use of text messaging, Facebook, or any other kind of social interaction that didn't involve an actual voice. I sat down and talked with the furthest lefts and rights I could find, I sought out the middle, I had conversations about damn near every candidate I could find, and all I heard was the same speech of controversy. Whatever side was speaking was right and whatever side the opposed was going to be the downfall of America. The context of stances didn't even seem to matter, it was listening to people prattle on about their favor sports team, how the games were all rigged and how the pitcher on the opposing team was an absolute piece of human trash, and likely some kind of uppity race traitor.

It seemed, without question, that the politics of my generation had become a spectator sport, where the issues in question were no longer 'What is best for my country?', but instead 'What is best for my team?'. Politics, to me at least, seems to have become less about the advancement of a people, and more about a new league of fantasy football, where it's always the red team vs. the blue team. 

It was a cluster-fuck of social issues and contextual statements that illustrated something fundamentally more important to me than the political anchoring in this country. What I saw, what I heard, what I came to understand, left me with a stronger sense of self than I've had in quite some time, and with it, I found a rushing surge of words - words I chose to leave silent until after the dust storm of wolf-crying had been settled as much as it likely will be in the next four years.

Politics, to me, seems to be the dirty business of decision making for a people in how they are perceived by those who do not reside in their country. It's for people who are willing to look at what will make their country a stronger, safer, better, place to live in the world. It's about brokering deals, shady handshakes for peacekeeping and propping people up only to knock them down later.

So then, the 'issues', so it seems to me, are just one giant Jack-a-lope hunt. People have built issues out of gender and sexuality equality, about the right to marry whoever you damn well please, and how it's your legal right to force people to abide by your way of living that it's what elections have become all about. Do you like God, guns, believe that marriage is between a man and a woman only, and have some kind of secret agenda against any kind of tolerance? Do you have questions about God, tout your opinions about marriage equality and make demands that all people are, in fact, equal and should be treated as such? Congratulations, you're a card carrying member of political stagnation.

These issues about gender and sexuality equality, these issues about what's the right way to conduct ourselves as a people. the fact that we have to turn these things over into a political arena -- and one nobody seems to like the way it's going or run, no less -- seems just utterly fucking absurd to me. You want to have a country where everybody can hold hands, hug, love, and agree that nobody's any better than anyone else. That's amazing, that's great, that's the way it should be - and yet your solution is to hand it over to a bunch of people who really don't ever do a whole lot to act upon that for you? That makes about as much sense as shooting yourself in the foot, then pricking yourself in the finger with an infected needle.

We live in a country where a 'sense of 'equality' and 'political correctness' has become absolutely crippling. We've been mainlining tolerance into the veins of the up and coming generations to the point we've clipped their wings in the interest of keeping the playing field as level as we can. We're all so chicken-shit scared of being able to sort out any of our own problems, that we turn them over to politicians and then make elections all about social issues plaguing the country -- and I think that's a large part of the problem

It is not a presidents job to give his blessing to gay marriage, no more than it has any place being drafted into any kind of law. The only reason that this process exists in modern culture is because we've all gotten so lawsuit happy over the affairs of political correctness and, instead of letting these issues go and ignoring the would-be-terrorists of these social agendas, we continue to propel a system that seems more and more interested in fixing a social system with tax dollars and less about being people with a whole lot less sticks stuck up our asses.

I'm frankly worn on seeing people winning elections on the platforms of God and Equality. The principle tenets of America, at least if you were to poll it's base population, are freedom and equality, but there's a catch to that. These same people, even those whom I admire, revere, and respect, all seem so hung up on enforcing it, that is not longer what they've been striving for at all. It's not freedom when you have a law in place to govern it, or when you have seven billion safety nets dividing a country on the grounds of race, creed, gender, religion, background, the number of children we have and are unable to support - and so on.

Social issues are not the problem of the government, they're the problem of the people. Sure, you need protections in place that prohibit crimes of rape and murder, across all platforms, and you're damn right to throw the fucking book at anyone still willing to me motivated by such ignorant factors in a crime, but when you start singling out the factions for special treatments and rights, in this day and age, you're really just driving the wedge of dissent deeper and deeper among the people.

Everyone has the right to be a human, to be protected, to get an education, get a job, slave away until they hayday of dried up social security and piss away the rest of their days staring out a window taped up with greeting cards from last years Holiday - and maybe, just maybe, doing it with your spouse in the eyes of whatever new or old God or Goddesss you've chosen. That's your American right. That's the freedom you have by living here. It doesn't matter your gender, your skin color, who you like to take to bed, or what you think about anyone else - and that's the catch.

You want your parades and your equality speeches? Fine, but you have to let everyone have them. We live in the information age, an age where every last shred of love, hate, inhumanity, and hope can all be found in a search bar and a few clicks of a touch-pad. Supposedly that bullshit needs to be okay. I call shenanigans on that and suggest that it needs to be less about teaching compassionate people to walk on eggshells, while those who seek to separate themselves are issued jackboots nobody wants to stand up to anymore, and more about getting people to have their opinions without having to be right all the damn time.

It's a nation of judge all, but don't judge me, a place where everybody has the right to be somebody, as long as you're not like everybody. It's a nation where you're identified more by who you vote for, who you fuck, and what you think about your gender than by what you want to do for the world. The merit of a companion is no longer held in account on matters of worldly goodness, but rather is asphyxiated and fucked in some trashy novel sold on new stands everywhere - and the protagonist is a real likeable asshole who happens to agree with everything you say even if it's only to shut you up.

You want to make your country better, you want to stop seeing your election go by the wayside you can't stand? Stop making them circuses about social issues that are things you, as American people, should be fixing on your own. Grow as a people, get over the fact that who you fuck doesn't make you special, nor does what's between your legs. Let go of the fact that skin color is even a consideration in your daily life, or that you may or may not believe in the same God as everyone walking down the street. In short? Make the world better by making issues out of less, standing up for equality for everyone, and quit adding taglines to further fictionalize a sense of unity among a people who've never been more separate.

Be a hero - and be damned with always being politically correct.

The Truth about Re-Writes

The Truth about Re-Writes:

and why nobody really gets any

So, I haven't written anything in months and the damn book was slated to be out in April. I knew that wasn't going to happen, and no amount of encouraging words, pressing phone calls, or demands that thing hurry up and get done could really rush the thing along. There was too much to write that hit too close to home. The book needed a piece about death and then, right as I was poised to really get a firm grip on what that meant, my Grandmother passed away. How the fuck are you supposed to write about death when one of, if not the most, influential people in your life has suddenly departed for greener pastures at the behest of black rabbits? The truth of the thing is, you don’t.

You sit there, and you stare at the paper. You chain smoke and drink whiskey, you stare off into space, looking through some twisted haze, and you hope that the fog lifts soon and the words come back. Of course you try writing anyway because what better time is there, after all, to try and capture the spirit of what you’re trying to say than when it’s right there in front of you. You hate every damn word you write and you feel like you’re committing the most damnable injustice in the history of time. You tear up the paper, turn the music up, and stiffen the drink. That’s what you do.

Then, because you’re a writer and have no real choice but to write if you want to hang onto that title, you try again. Still, you get nowhere and everything becomes a re-write. You re-write it again, and again, and again. Still, you’re not doing it right. More drinks follow and you stare at the city lights against the night sky. You say the things you should have said, you admit that you miss that sense of someone in your life, and wander around in the jungle, just trying to find your rhythm.  Nothing seems to work and you feel like you’ve lost it, so, what do you do?

Sensible, perhaps healthy – though I wouldn’t say that – people, would say this is when you just set it down, set it aside, and let the grief work its way through you however it’s going to. “You can’t fight it,” they say, and I don’t believe them. Everyone tells you it will pass, and you know they’re wrong. Things like that don’t pass, they change you. You are not the same as you were with them in your corner, because there’s nothing more than can give you, yet you’re expected to carry on as if nothing’s changed.

So, you sit down to write again. You put a cigarette in your lips and your hands to the paper. That doesn’t work so you try the keyboard again. You’re still deleting everything because the event in front of you is bigger than you even know how to begin capture. You’ve just got to stare at it and re-write it again – and that’s when it hits you: Life doesn’t give you a chance to re-write anything.

That’s the kind of thought that hits like a ten ton truck and leaves you gasping with guilt and a serious lack of oxygen – and it should. It’s one of those jarring epiphanies that you’d almost rather forget as soon as it happens, but the trouble is that you know you can’t. This is one of those things that you’re supposed to hold onto and remember; one of those painful lessons that you’ve been taught over and over again and it’s being retold to you in the most nightmarish way you can possibly imagine.

Nobody gets a re-write. There are no do-overs or Mulligans. There are no rain-checks. There’s no such thing as a snow day, and they won’t reschedule a game just because you’re sick and can’t be there. Life is a one way trip down one way roads with no U-turns, at least not yet. This entire piece is a prime example of this; there are no stops, no re-writes, no second guessing the words. They are what they are, and will stand as they stand. This is dealing with death, on its terms, and I see no other way to do the damn thing justice.

This the last lesson of death, and one we often don’t get to really appreciate – unless you’re one of those people who clings to the feverish hope of reincarnation and another shot at the prize – is that, when it’s over, it’s over. Your life is done. You’ve run your course and it’s left to a jury of your peers to decide the type of life you’ve lived. Have you been the hero they all remember, the kind of person that gets buried in stories told through tears and smiles or, worse yet, have you left behind a room full of strangers who’ve only got snapshots, and not even enough to fill a scrap book?

It occurred to me then, that maybe this is why it is advised one “stop and smell the flowers”, I then thought that such a thing was only partially true. Yeah. You’ve got to make sure you enjoy what’s there, but stopping? That’s an absolutely insane idea. You can’t stop on this road because, when you stop, the ride’s over. Why rush towards such a thing, least of all when there’s so much to get out there and do?

The woman who died, she often lived her life in a way that wasn’t getting out there and doing. I understood it in a lot of respects. She was aging, in failing health, and had been in enough pain to see her properly doped up and drained of all motivation. Even when she wasn’t in the hospital, she was like this, and it seemed to be the way everyone around her was used to seeing her.

She was the constant vigil in the bay windows, looking out over the driveway and waving you goodbye. She was the silhouette in the Christmas lights, and the woman who smelled like candy and cursed like a drunken sailor. She was the woman who rarely went out, but always had money for the kids and Grandchildren when they came over. She was there every time you were sick, making you your favorite food and buying you toys. She was there, always, sitting just on the other side of the windows, waiting for you to come inside and warm up.

She took a lot of flak for these things. Everyone always wanted more for her, and it was understandable. She was a woman who did a lot for everyone around her, and they always wanted her to give to herself. That never really worked out at all. She kept on with it, all the way to the very end, smuggling candy for all her visitors way more than she was for herself.

I spent a lot of time thinking about this the last few months, spending too much time with the God-Awful, southern heat, trying to really figure out what could bring someone to that kind of conclusion. What could make someone really sit there and decide to live for someone else and how could someone who’d been so important in shaping me have a perspective that was so contrary to my own? I’ve finally figured it out. The last lesson of a woman who was more brilliant than she knew is what I’m about to share with you.

Life’s a thing to be lived, and it doesn’t really matter how anyone else thinks you’re doing it. It’s yours to make of it in the way that you think is right, that makes you the happiest. If that’s being a kind person who sacrifices again and again so that those around you can be happy? If that’s really who you are, do it. It’s really that simple.

It doesn’t really matter if anyone approves, or agrees with it – and don’t read into this as a rational for being some selfish fuckwit or serial rapist, there’s no hope at all for you bastards and if you’re miserable? Well, I can’t say you don’t have it coming. Moving on.

It doesn’t matter if anyone approves of your life, so long as you do. Nobody needs to understand it, or even like it, so long as you’re doing what you know to be the right thing. Take your moral ground and defend it to the death, just don’t use it as a staging ground to attack. Be who you are and love the way you love, feel the way you can and share it however you damn well please. Live your fucking life in a way that makes you feel like you’ve accomplished what you’re here to do, and do it every damn day.

If you find something that doesn’t work for you, fucking change it. If you find something that does work for you, fucking hold onto it until it doesn’t. Don’t be afraid to change lanes, but don’t feel like you have to either. If you’re happy with where you are, then you’re where you should be. Even if everyone around you sees you as miserable, sad, and alone, you hold your damn head up and you keep right on going. Keep your eyes open and be ready to shift gears, but only do it because you want to.

Again, and I can’t stress this enough, only because you want to. That’s the key principle in making it work. You’ve got to only change yourself to suit you, regardless of what pressures those around you might throw at you. Hell, even if they’re thing that might be good for you, stick to the fact that you’ll only take the change when you’re good and damn ready. It doesn’t matter if you can’t hear well, those fuckers can shout. You’ll get the hearing aids when you’re ready and the air will be there when you need it.

This is how she lived her life, how she taught me to live mine, and I can’t thank her enough for it. She taught me the importance of not just living life, but living at whatever speed you wanted. She taught me the value of being who you were, no matter what anyone had to say about it, and this, as I see it, is the very essence of the lessons in death.

It’s a time to look back in the rear view mirror, if just for a second, and look at all the turns you could have taken and didn’t – the catch is you’ve got to look back forward again and be happy with where you are too. This won’t always be the case – hindsight is 20/20 after all – and that’s okay too. You’ve just got to keep moving forward and look for somewhere else to take yourself.

You can’t go back and take the other trail, but you can plan another route. You can’t turn it off, but you can change the channel. You can’t stop the music, but you can find a new melody. You can’t stop the words, but you can find a new voice. That’s what it’s all about. You’ve got to just keep going and change course in motion. If you stop, it’s over. Slow down if you’ve got to but, for the love of whatever you worship, do. Not. Stop – at least not unless you’re good and damn ready to get off the ride right where you are.

You’ve got to keep you chin up and, though you sure as Hell don’t have to be calm; it really does pay to get a good look at what you love. Keep a list of it, if that’s what it takes. Find what you love in life and don’t be afraid to change it. Be who you want to be, and love that person too. Hang onto it. Appreciate it. Cherish it, because there’s going to come a day when you’re not around to have it.
Most of all though?

You’ve got to love life, because it’s yours.

However you do it, do it right because, like I’ve said before – nobody gets a re-write.

How to really make lemonade:

How to really make lemonade:

A bit of wisdom about life.

Life’s a pretty strange goddamned place. It’s a series of events, some fortunate, others, arguably, not so much. It’s a constant period of learning, trails, and tribulations to which everyone seems to have their own bit of wisdom. Everyone knows the saying “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” – And I think this is a great quote. It’s teaching you to take something which, in a variety of contexts, could be viewed as negative and turns it into something a lot more positive. There are, however, things which I think we are not taught in our average, every day, lives, and that’s what I’m going to write about today…tonight…whatever.

Sure, when life hands you lemons, it’s important to understand how to shift your perspective and turn it into a positive. What about those moments when life reads like a terrifying movie from your childhood? What about those moments when you’ve set yourself up to carry on in the calmness of your existence, to buckle down and work hard and something comes along and just says “You think that’s what you’re doing? No you’re not. This is life; you don’t get to make those decisions right now. This is what happens and you have no choice what-so-ever but to deal with it, and deal with it Right. Now.”

So many people are honestly trained to ignore those moments, to ignore those basic, simple, responses that are powerful enough to physically manifest themselves over the entire scope of your body. Everyone uses them in allegory, and you’ve all heard them. Think about it. “His blood ran cold.” “Her heart skipped a beat.” “Her blood boiled with rage.” and so on. They are examples of such metaphor and they are used all throughout literature.

Every media spectrum we have has shown us these things. In literature, we see it in some of the examples above. Even in film, even in commercials, we’re bombarded with these concepts. It honestly seems, to this writer, however, that this had led to an unfair desensitization to these feelings. We’re taught to ignore these very basic and primal responses, unless, of course, we have to rationalize them as generically bad, or a way for us to plug a product, and I’d like to take a moment to offer a different perspective.

I would like to put forth the idea that these responses are not always bad. They come in all shapes, all sizes, all lengths of time; from the longest five minutes of your life, to the entire rest of your life. They can mean all kinds of things, but if there’s one thing I have found to be true about them, it’s this: It does not pay to ignore these things ever, any more than it does to fight them, and, above all else, it never pays to go looking for them either.

These are the moments that life has selected, where you see something, feel something, meet someone, and everything else in your life is given no choice but to stop, because that’s all it can do. All it can do is stop because the sheer scope of what you’re looking at is impossible to conceive if you don’t. However, that being said, it is entirely up to you to acknowledge it and choose to take it in. If you don’t? That’s it. It’s gone. It’ll be back, but never in the same shape.

How do you take something like that in? Honestly, it’s a bit like standing in the surf in letting the wave roll into you. You’ve got to accept that it might knock you over. You’ve got to accept that it might hurt you. You’ve got to accept that you might get some water in your lungs, you’ve got to accept that you might sputter, that you might cough, choke, gag and even vomit, and then you’ve got to accept that fact that it might kill you…and then you’ve got to decide what you’re going to do with that.

I ‘m sure there was a moment where you felt something, maybe it was something just too damn big to stare down, and maybe you had the knee-jerk reaction to get the fuck out of there. If it was the latter, then you really sit down and make sure that’s what’s going on. Look at what frightens you, stare it right in the damn face, and see how scared of it you really are, and then decide. If it wasn’t, if you just saw something you couldn’t comprehend and decided to turn your back on it? Well, then I have no choice but to offer some kind of condolences to you and hope that maybe, just maybe, I can help that not happen to you again in the future.

Sure, when the wave hits, you can kick your feet and scream and run away. What’s that going to teach you? That wave, for whatever reason, was just too big. That’s okay, as long as you’re okay with it, but don’t just leave it at that. Sit down and think about the wave, and what was it that scared you? Why did you run away from it? What was so bad? Was it really as big as you remember? Sit down and really ask yourselves things.

Now, stay with me here, and think for a moment that this metaphor is using the simple example of survival – and then remember what I said about metaphors desensitizing you to these things. Hold onto that thought while you continue reading.

So. You want to live and a big, fuck off, scary wave comes rolling your way. Of course you ran away. Why? You wanted to live. That’s easy enough to accept. Right? Right. The problem is that, even with that metaphor, that justification is just too simple. It’s not that black and white. You didn’t run away from it because it was too big, or might have killed you, because it’s not really a wave. You were dealing with one of life’s biggest bastard of a lemon. You were dealing with fear.

Oh, I know, how can I say such a thing?

‘Fear is so important! Fear is what helps us survive by knowing we’re somewhere we shouldn’t be! Fear is an instinct to run away!”

I’m honestly not going to argue against that logic, because it makes sense. Yes, fear is a survival instinct. It exists in every animal, across every species, regardless of gender, diet, or size. Every animal, which includes humans, has a hardwired understanding of that feeling and what it represents, but there’s one, fundamental, difference between the animal world, and the world of humans: Humans are the only ones clever enough to invent reasons for fear.

We, as a species, manifest in so many forms, using it in all manner of shapes, sizes and colors. It’s something which we can rationalize into any excuse we want, to fit any situation we want, and it’s the only thing we ever really need to talk ourselves out of doing something, out of living life. Yes, life will throw big, bastard, waves at you. It will, no doubt about it, it happens to everyone. Again, they can come in just about every shape and every size as those fear excuses – convenient huh?

These are the moments when it is easiest to use that inventive power, where it becomes simpler to rationalize yourself out of something, rather than to look at it and figure out what to do with it. For example:

You’re going out with your friends, maybe you’re going to see a movie and then you’re all going to skip out for a few rounds of drinks, stumble home laughing, and pass out on your couch because you’ve worn yourself out having fun. The movie wasn’t the greatest, probably some comedy about some strange series of events that used one too many fart jokes for you, but you had a good time with your friends, you made a couple jokes, everybody laughed, you’re feeling pretty good about yourself.

You’ve all been there, I imagine. Now stay with me; this is where it gets interesting.

You’re at the bar, having drinks, laughing or whatever, and you go to get your next bottle because you’re out. Someone steps up to the bar beside you and orders a drink. Maybe it’s the same drink, maybe it’s not. You look over, you make eye contact. It’s brief. There might have even been a smile there – and this is when the world stops.

It might only be for a moment, but you’re standing there running through the list of things you want to say to this person, cross checking them with the one-thousand and one things that could go wrong, and that, as I see it, is where the problem lies.

This is the time when it’s easiest to invent the fear, to find the lemon, to give yourself all the reassurances that you need to shut the fuck up, say nothing, look away, go back to your seat and ponder about who this person might have been for the next two weeks.

Why’d you do that? Why take a bite of that lemon? Were you scared you’d be shot down? Were you scared they would find you boring? Were you worried you’d just say something really stupid and embarrassing? It could have been any of those things, but you know what it really is at the end of the day? It’s that you have no idea if it was any of those things because you didn’t give any of those things a chance to happen.

You took an opportunity and you talked yourself out of it. There could have been something there or there could have been nothing. The fact of the matter really is that you will never know, because life handed you a lemon and you took a big bite out of it. You let your head convince you that your gut was telling you to fuck off with this idea, that it would all end horribly wrong, and that you shouldn’t just bother.

That’s the difference between looking at life and listening to that that gut wrenching understanding that it often gets passed off as – and don’t let me underestimate that. Listening to your gut is important. On the other hand, if you’re never going to give yourself the chance, you’re effectively talking for it anyway, that’s one great way to take that lemon of life and smash it into the bullet you just sent into your foot.

This is the part where some of you might be going: “But wait a minute! I thought you said you were going to talk about how these things could be positive?!”

Hold on. I’m getting to it now, thanks for sticking with me.

Life does not always give you lemons, it does not always rain on you, and it does not always kick you when you are down. Life does not always give you what you want just because you want it. Sometimes, life will give you fresh, sweet, fruits. Sometimes, life will give you sunshine. Sometimes, life will give you exactly what you need to get back up on your feet, and sometimes, just sometimes; it will give you just what you want even if you didn’t know you wanted it.

Some people just think they’re being paranoid, other people just think they’re crazy. What about you, the reader, how many times have you sat down and felt the overwhelming panic for no reason you could justify, or the fierce desire to pursue something with every fiber of your being? Now, out of those times, how many times have you written it off and done absolutely nothing about it? That’s your lemon, and I have a suggestion for you now as to how to make some lemonade out of it.

Yes, the road is long and full of stuff, but that doesn’t mean it’s all bad, or that it has even got a lot of lemons along the way. What life has is fruit, that’s all. Sure, sometimes that fruit is bitter, nasty; maybe it’s even rotten. How much you see of that fruit and whether or not it’s actually bitter depends on how far you’re willing to go to find out.

There are moments, no matter how brief, that life has set in front of you. This is not life kicking you when you are down; this is not life being unfair. This is life giving you a challenge. This is life seeing just how far you’ll go, and how hard you’ll try. This is you, being put in a position where you are going to have your meddle tested and possibly everything you thought you knew about yourself and where you were going be challenged, this is the moment where, at least for now, you find your edge – and this, my readers, is not a bad thing.

To restate my position: Yes, life will, sometimes, lead you to a lemon, but that’s no reason to ignore all the other damn fruit out there just because you’re convinced you might get a lemon. If you do that, you’ll never experience anything new. If you do that, you’re effectively giving up on life, because you’ve convinced yourself it’s just too scary.

Yes, you might get sour bites. Yes, you might get burned. Yes, it might hurt and it might hurt a lot. If you lay down, if you take that, if you pull the blankets up over your head and hide, then you’re choosing to lie with your lemons. That’s your choice.

If you’re willing to look at what’s in front of you, look at the rocks you’re dropping around yourself and climb over them; if you’re willing to put yourself face to face with your fear, if you’re willing to stand toe to toe with a, very real, prospect of pain, if you’re willing to risk something ‘bad’ (because what’s really bad in the long run is terribly suggestive) happening to you in order to find out what’s out there, then you know what you’ve figured out how to do?

You’ve really figured out how to make lemonade and now you only have one thing left to do:
Drink up and enjoy.

It began with a questions to the writer:

It began with a questions to the writer:
A bit about crutches.

Every so often I get questions from my general audience. Sometimes they’re emails, other times they’re phone calls, and sometimes that have absolutely nothing to do with what I write at all. Sometimes they’re questions that come about in some of the smallest ways that make me think surprisingly large things. It’s strange, it’s weird, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s that you should never turn your back on strange and weird things.

Today, I got asked to about crutches. Well, more specifically, I got asked to write something about crutches as a kind of an arrangement. I didn’t think much of it at the time honestly, and then there was talk of having me pick the topic, so on and so forth, and then I just sat back to think.

I should confess at this point that I was not entirely in my head, for a variety of reasons. One, was that it had been a very busy couple of days filled with a lot of great conversations and others that were, well, not so great. Two, I wrote four thousand words yesterday that I actually really liked and was pretty proud of too. If you’ve never written four thousand words, in just shy of seven hours, it’s not terribly easy. Still, I set a goal, I accomplished, and I celebrated rightly. Three, I was watching the television show Spaced and had a head full of pleasant thoughts that weren’t really in line with thinking about crutches – naturally, I started thinking about it anyway.

I started thinking that I did, in fact, know a thing or two about crutches. I’d spent a considerable portion of my youth on them, both metaphorically and otherwise, and I’d managed to come out the other side without a general need of use for them. Then I started thinking about all the things I endured while on them, both metaphorically and otherwise, and trying to remember the thoughts, feelings, sensations, and so on that came with all that.

It was like looking at a picture book of someone else’s life. It was like being reminded of a time that I’d forgotten, of what it was like to be chastised and spat upon by the world for things that I had no way of understanding. It was like being trampled by angry cows and fed to hungry pigs, it was like being kicked down a hill of broken light bulbs and landing in a pool of lemon juice and salt water – in short, it was a pretty horrible book.

Then I read it again, and again, and again. I flipped through the memories like they were one of those stick figure flip books you used to make on post-it notepads. I stared at the images in my mind, which are things I honestly don’t consider often, and I tried to remember them in more detail, to remember how I had lived both with and on the crutches of all shapes and sizes.

I couldn’t. It’s that simple, I couldn’t. Why couldn’t I? I couldn’t because because I never lived with crutches, I’ve coped with them. They’ve simply been a means to an end, a training wheel of sorts to get me through to the understanding that, evidently, makes such a serious impact on all the people I’ve met in my life. It was that one, silent, thing that, I guess, people stood in awe of but, to me, that was never it.

See, I’ve never done something that I’ve seen like that, and this isn’t simple humility talking either. I’ve never lived with crutches, I’ve coped with them. The same can be said for all manner of mobility assistance, regardless of spectrum. I’ve never lived with it, nor have I resigned to it, and I do not honestly believe I ever would, or will need to do so.

So, what can I say about me and crutches? Not much. I’ve never made enough of a big deal out of them to really remember them. They were moments, things that happened, things that gave me a perspective I carry with me now, but that’s it. I remember the moment I stopped using them, and I remember why, but that’s it.

Now’s the part where you’re probably all curious, right? Why’d you stop using them then? What happened? Did you get better? Did you get surgery or something?

No. I didn’t. I couldn’t get better because there was nothing wrong with me, and that’s what happened. I woke up and realized there was absolutely nothing wrong with me. I stepped out into the world, of my own accord, and I did so without crutches. I didn’t need surgery, or not another one anyway.  See, I'd already had surgery once, and I still was told I'd need the things and still need to cope. I never agreed with that. So, I woke up and I didn’t need them. I was able to stand up, move about, and dance, all own my own.

This is the part where, I'm sure, a lot of people come come up with a lot of reasons, why I "got better". I've heard everything from "God did it" to "See, the surgery fixed you! Hooray!" So, let's set the record straight. The surgery I went through did not fix me. It broke things and had me unlearn everything I had learned, and then I was told I still didn't have very good odds of walking. 

I may have only been five years old at the time, but in my time I have very clearly come to understand the one, single, thought I had on that matter. I didn't use the same words, couldn't have even understood the same words probably, but now it makes perfect sense. What I thought was this: Fuck. That.

That’s one of the biggest differences between me and most other “handi-capable” people I know. They’re coping living with something that’s wrong with them, living with crutches, living with some giant weight on their shoulders, and I understand it. That life is not easy, but you know what else it isn’t? It’s not all that hard either. I've heard people tell me how hard it must be for me, or how hard it is and, again, I have one thing to say to that: Fuck. That. No it isn't.

I chose not to use crutches unless I had to cope with something beyond what I could control. I’m sure there will be days again where they come back, in a variety of literal and non-literal ways, because I might need them. Let’s face it, I’ve got a gimpy leg and I don’t really seem to pay attention to it. I’m bound to break something sooner or later – even broke my toes in my sleep once.

Am I saying it’s all about choosing to be “disabled”? Yes and No. There’s a limit to everything anyone can do, doesn’t matter who you are in the world, nobody can do everything. That’s the limit. There’s just not enough time in life to do everything there is to do. Anything else you find to stop you from doing something, I’d wager is about eighty percent self-imposed and twenty percent unwilling to make the changes that need to be made to do it.

People who choose to view their disabilities, handicaps, or what-have-you, as limitations to what they can do? I can’t fault them for that. It’s not what I’ve done, but I’m not everyone else. I’m me. I’m the only person I can make choices for, and I chose, quite simply, not to do that. You might have to accept some rather practical limitations in life but, so does everyone else.

It’s pretty amazing what you can do with that kind of perspective. Hell, it’s pretty amazing for just about everyone apparently. You can do just about anything if you’re just willing to shift the way you look at it. It’s a bit like being called a seahorse. It might not make sense, but if you don’t look just a little bit harder, and ask just the right questions of the world around you, you might miss something that really blows your mind.

So, again, what do I have to say about crutches, or about living with them?

They’re tools. That’s it. You don’t live with tools; you use tools when you need them to get something done. 

That’s it – and that’s all I have to say about crutches.

A tale of Bitches and Bastards:

A tale of Bitches and Bastards:

Sights and sounds of horror as witnessed during the modern battle of the sexes.

I’m sure you’ve all seen the news, read the headlines, and heard your friends talking about the stories over a round of beers. The world has gone gung-ho for equality, started screaming for justice and fair treatment, and all the while, the fat cats and screw heads seem just as content to sit down and say “No, that’s okay. You don’t really need that anyway.” They come in all manner of twisted shapes and colors that lead this writer to strongly believe that someone, somewhere, has begun spiking the communal punch of wisdom with a whole lot of LSD and nonsense.

Some have begun touting for the mandate of womb control under a banner of religion, leaving a wake of impoverished and angry people sweltering in the heat of moral stupidity and finding no shade under the Alamo of self-righteous indignation. Others have found a call to arms against all races for the justice of youth and the mismanagement of violence, never mind the fact they’re posting wrong addresses and shutting down businesses that have fuck all to do with what they’re mad about at all. Others still, are simply content to call out their leaders for being snake oil salesmen and communists – indeed, it seems these days everyone is marching under a red banner of fear, and I’m here to call bullshit on the whole damn circus.

What I’m here to talk about is the equality of humanity, the desegregation of genitals, why what’s between your legs has fuck all bearing on who you are as a person, and why, if you’re hell bent and content to keep that line drawn in the sand, then you’re just as guilty as all these people who’re pissed off that the government wants rights to their wombs and what comes out of them.

We’re going to deal with this whole regulation over who’s got rights to the womb, and we’re going to call it bullshit. Truth of the matter seems to me, that possession is nine tenths of law and, in this case, that other one tenth seems to be populated by a bunch of archaic thinkers who want to lay down stock on their lineage.

The fact that there seems to be a real sense of sexual entitlement about the whole thing, or the fact that some people seem to be forgetting the founding principle that America isn’t told its politics from the pulpit of Christianity, or even the fact that everyone in America is supposed to be given the freedom of personal choice, seems to be completely outside the spectrum of this argument. This whole thing seems to be boiling down to everyone else wanting the right to say what’s right or wrong for someone else.

When, exactly, did we decide we were just going to piss all over that principle and going ahead and inject ourselves with rabies? At what point did the voice of God start coming through my political candidates? Wherein modern American creeds, after the trials of suffrage and the fight for equality, have we decided that women are special, but that they can’t be given any kind of control over their bodies at all? The whole thing stinks to me.

It’s as if the world has suddenly become overrun with some jeering whore-mania, as if every politician on the side of God feels the right to climb the child-bearing bits of women as their own respective property because that’s how God wants it. Right. God wants you to control other people’s choices, judge them, and then decide that you have the authority to throw away things they might need in life because you don’t think their choices are morally sound.

Nobody has the right to make choices about sex for anyone else. I’m sure everyone knows what they call a person who makes choices for others about sex and, if you don’t, I’m going to fill you in: They’re a rapist.  Be it how they have it, how they attempt to stop procreation, or how they feel about not bringing a child into the world. These are choices that fall to the people who’re doing the actual fucking, regardless of what hole or whether or not the intention is for breeding. That’s just the way it is, and these aging bastards, who still cling to their lordly ambitions of sexual ownership need a serious wakeup call on the matter. They’re acting like moral rapists, imposing their values of what is wholesome, good, and proper on the rest of us.

I don’t know about the rest of you, but it seems to fly in the face of American principle values to even be having this argument. The Pilgrims, some of the primary settlers in this country had the right idea – don’t want to follow a religion, get on a boat and get the fuck out, go be free. That’s what this country was supposed to be about; a place where people could be free of the mandates of other people’s ideas of God and to carry on with life as you want to live it. That’s what America was meant to be, that’s how it was designed.

All of you out there who think you’ve got some kind of right to lay claim to someone else’s reproductive organs, I’ve got one thing to say to you: You come for my balls, and there’s going to be blood running down the streets. If I had a uterus, I’d say the damn thing. It’s mine and you can go fuck yourself if you think you’ve got any sort of moral or legal right to it. Everyone has the right to defend their bodies from harm; it doesn’t matter if it’s coming from Capitol Hill or from the pages of someone else’s favorite damnable, self-interpreted, fairytale that, by and large, seems to have completely ignored its protagonist’s lessons. That’s your right as an American and as a human being.

The same thing applies to the whole damn lot of you who seem content to sit around and start spouting off in your “X-hating” rants. You want to sit around and say all women are whores, or that are men are just stupid bastards who like to think with their dicks? Well, let me just say congratulations on stepping into the age of hypocrisy and double standards. I’d say it’s nice to have you here, but I frankly can’t stand the whole damn lot of you.

So gents, here is the news flash for you – you like to fuck. You’re human, just about everyone likes to fuck, and that’s not something that has a damn thing to do with what you’ve got between your legs. You like to fuck and you’re not a whore. You go out with the intention to get laid. You like to look at people naked, and you masturbate in your secret shame. You know what else? You’ve got feelings and that’s okay too.

It doesn’t make you less of a man to have some conviction that doesn’t come from your balls, or to say that you respect women’s rights. It shouldn’t make you some kind of social pariah amongst your peers because you want to stand up for equality and say there’s more to life than a shapely ass, a nice pair of tits, and hips that will push your spawn into the world; not that there’s anything wrong with appreciating these traits either, just don’t make them things. They’re part of a person. Period.

Ladies, same rules apply. You like to fuck. You might like dick, and that’s okay. It doesn’t make you a slut, or a whore. The understanding that you like to have sex, that orgasms feel fucking fantastic and are good for you, doesn’t devalue in a social sense. I understand there are many parts of the world and this country that would have you think it’s a one way ticket to sulfur springs and a place where a fat, red, horny, fucker is going to poke you in a very uncomfortable way – but is that a whole lot different than what’s going on right now anyway?

If you like to fuck, then fuck. It’s really that simple. It’s not about how often you do it, what your favorite position is, whether you take a pill or wrap you shit in latex. It’s not about taking it in the ass – because who doesn’t feel like they do they do these days anyway – or if you like to go down on your respective partner. Not a damn one of these things makes you a slut, because damn near everyone likes to do all of these things.

So what does make you a slut or a whore? Let’s take a look at Webster’s:

Definition of WHORE

1:a woman who engages in sexual acts for money : prostitute; also : a promiscuous or immoral woman

2: a male who engages in sexual acts for money

Definition of SLUT

1: chiefly British : a slovenly woman

2: a : a promiscuous woman; especially : prostitute b : a saucy girl : minx

If you’re to go by the dictionary then, if you’re dirty and fucking for money, you’re a slut, and likely a whore. If you’re just fucking for money, regardless of gender, then you’re just a whore.  The thing that gets me is that there’s even a gender distinction in the latter parts of these definitions. It doesn’t matter what’s between your legs. An immoral person is someone fair to call a whore, or even a slut. Everything about them is for sale because they have no principle on which to stand and think that, if they do, it’s their right to bring everyone else around to their perspective – and since when is calling someone the dictionary definition of promiscuous an insult? Let’s take a look at that while we’re right here:

Definition of PROMISCUOUS:

1:composed of all sorts of persons or things

2: not restricted to one class, sort, or person : indiscriminate

3: not restricted to one sexual partner

4: casual, irregular <promiscuous eating habits>

Looking at this, anyone who fucks for money is a whore and a slut. Any promiscuous or immoral person is a whore and a slut – we’re going to ignore the whole bit where it includes women because that’s rubbish. What the words are basically telling me is that someone who is willing to look outside themselves, consider the world as a whole, and be a diverse and varied person, is both a slut and whore. We all, generally, understand that this isn’t what’s meant when these that are being used, but that’s still the whole truth of what’s being said.

Sure, they want you to think that people are sluts and whores because they like to fuck, and God has no mercy for those who fuck for money. Well, guess what? Lots of people get paid lots of money just to fuck in this country; the catch is that it doesn’t involve a single penis going into a single anus, vagina, ear, nose, mouth, or even damming piercing hole. They get paid to fuck all kinds of people all at once, and yet it’s perfectly okay for these people to stand up and brand all the rest of us a bunch of dirty minxes? I, for one, think not.

Trying to change anything the world in a way that further separates the sexes simply makes you an asshole and it doesn’t rightly matter what side of the line you stand on. You want to stand on your soap box and tout your right, religious or not, to say that you’re better than the other, and someone should slap your ass hard enough to knock you out of the archaic cesspool you seem content to let your thoughts fester in. You want to stand up and say all women who use birth control are sluts, or that all men are womb control freaks who think with their dick? You deserve just the same treatment.

Men and women have one fundamental thing in common: they’re both people. Like it or not, that’s the way it is, and there’s nothing that can be done about it and there shouldn’t be anyone who tries to do something about it. We’re human beings. What gender we are doesn’t make us any more special, neither does what religion we follow, or don’t, or the color of our skin. No one has a right to pass laws, or refuse you anything based on any of these principles, and they sure as fuck don’t have the right to run your life based on how often you like to have sex.

Like was written earlier, there’s one thing every last one of you can do to make this better for yourselves overall. On the smaller scale, this applies to your social situations too and I encourage you to really think about it. It’s not uncommon, regardless of which gender you are, to hear some sordid tale of whorish bitches and unscrupulous bastards. It’s too easy to sit there and say “All men are pigs” or “All women are sluts.” It’s too easy to keep taking a step away from your fellow humans because of what’s between their legs and draw yet another line in the sand. It’s too easy and, if you want to get anywhere in this timeless battle of sexism, it’s got to stop.

They’re stereotype situations where no one wins. They’re the kind of thing that gives credence to these sweaty palmed, fat cats, who are hell-bent to take away your right to look after your own body. It makes everyone look bad and perpetuates the cycle of condemnation and condescension. It forces a wall up, even if you don’t know it, even if you don’t think about it, even if you don’t think anyone hears you, and anything you say that says “I am X and hear me fucking roar” will inevitably be drawn into question because of your inability to look for equality rather than specialized separation.

So why not let it go? Why not admit that some people are, in fact, whores, why not admit that some men are, in fact, quite prone to thinking with their dicks and nothing else, but why don’t you try and handling this on a case by case basis? Sure, if someone, man or women, fucks you over in this fashion, it wouldn’t be entirely unfair to sit down and address that among your peers, but when you start doing it as literal, blanket, statements about gender, what exactly is it you’re hoping to achieve?

Are you looking for some kind of external validation? Are you looking for catharsis? Is it sympathy? Or are you just reacting to the fact that you’ve been ill-treated and you’re angry about it? The next time you’re in that position, I advocate you strip naked and stand in front of the mirror, cover up your junk and imagine it’s the opposite of what you’ve got. Stand in the shoes of those sex-crazed, wild, emotional, unstable, maniacs, and then take your hand away. You’re no different. You’re no better. You’re a person and the more you keep trying to separate yourself into smaller and smaller boxes, the more the world is going to think that’s exactly what you want, and they’ll think it’s perfectly okay to give it to you in ways they want.

Some men will never think with their dicks, some men will think that it’s absolutely wrong to have government regulated womb control. Some men will do the dishes, cook dinner, and take out the trash. They’ll watch the kids, and be the stay at home Dad – and some women will want to do the exact same thing. You can’t answer the world for everyone and say that as a man, or woman, I can speak for all women, or all men, about what exactly it is that you, we, I, and they want. You just can’t. It’s not even remotely realistic. So, why bother?

Why not let that shit go? Why not stop making bullshit proclamations about entire fractions of your population? Why not throw sexism out the fucking window. You’re human, you’re equal, and you deserve it. You’re all perverts. You’re all degenerates. You all like to fuck and think you’ve got all the answers. You like to live life and follow what you believe, and you’re firm in your conviction that you, if given the chance, could fix everything for everybody. It’s noble, but it’s ultimately wrong. You may have a way that works for many, you may have a way that works for most, but nobody will ever agree with everything you have to say.

The only thing we can do is to keep trying and speak fairly for everyone. All we can do, as humans, is keep trying to give each of us a fair chance to follow what they want and defend what it is that we want. Some people will never believe in abortions or contraceptives, and that’s their right. Some people will think that they have a spiritual sense of responsibility and that’s how they’re going to fulfill it. That’s their right. If you want to use condoms, fuck daily, and take the pill, that’s your right. If you want to get abortions because something happened somewhere and you got pregnant, that’s your choice and it’s your right – but remember that just because it’s what you think, or what you want, it’s not going to be what everyone wants.

This is the modern world, this is a world of one click ownership, and this is a world where everything and anything you want can be at your fingertips in a minute. This is a world built by humans to make life easier for them. Why fight against it? Why keep using all these tools to keep building walls? Why keep using these tools to make an ever shrinking world seem further and further apart?

You’ve all got voice, you’re all using them to take a stand against something, but why hold on to these outdated ideals of equality? Why strive to be different and special instead of equal? Why take on the labels the world wants to give you with your private justification, only to shout about them in the spotlight?

Why not embrace the fact that we live in the modern world, where rights and sex is out there for everybody to have? It’s a world where it’s possible to do what you love, and love what you do – especially if it’s people.  It’s your obligation as a human, in America, to stand up and say tell those promiscuous whores in government and politics that you’re not going to stand for this blatant raping of your human rights. It’s your obligation, as a collective whole, to put down the guns and stop going to war over sexism. It’s time to let go of your rifles and put out your hands for shaking and hugs. It’s time to band together as a whole and shake one, loud, angry, unified fist against the things you think are wrong.

If you really want to sit back and have the world start taking you all seriously, you’ve got to be willing to look at each other in the same light. You’ve got to be willing to stop with your private perpetuating and set out to change the way you’re acting in the world. You’ve got to stop calling every woman you see a whore, and every man you see on the street a sexual jailor. You’ve got to open your eyes and shut your mouth. You’ve got to look at what’s changed and step over those lines we’ve all drawn in the sand.

Yes, you’re human, and yes, you can roar. You can shout with just as much conviction and passion as any other human man. Yes, you’re a human and you can cook, clean, love, and be just as passionate as any other human. Yes, we are emotional. Yes, we have the potential to be reactive and irrational. Yes, we are capable of all manner of things and not all of them are good, but not all of them are bad either.

So the next time you sit down with a group of your like gender peers and somehow or another the topic of the opposite comes up, stop. Stop and think about them. Stop and think that they’re people, just like you. They’re no more prone to being irrational or reactive than you are, they’re not any better or worse than you are, just because of what they are, and there’s nothing about them, as people, that is any different than you. The next time someone says “All _____ are  ____”, don’t hesitate to stand up and put down that kind of thinking.

All any of us are, is human. All any of us can expect is that we’ll continue to be human. Some of us will be ‘good’, some of us will be selfish; some of us will think we’re saving those around us with our actions, and all of us, at some frequent point or another, will be wrong. That’s the long and short of it and anything more than that is irrelevant in terms of equality.

We’re humans, and that’s all. Some of us have breasts, some don’t. We all bleed, we all breathe, we all laugh, and we all cry. We all live, we all die. We all want, we all dream, and we call fuck. We all work, we all think, we all eat, we’re all alive, and, at the end of the day, we all share a world. So, if our world wants to calls us whores for how we live, what we think, and what we feel; if our world wants to tell us that what we do is wrong, that our communally, whorish, behavior is worthy of condemnation and the government has the right to step and intervene on behalf of our best interest, then let’s take a look at what it means to be a whore again – and let’s throw out gender this time.

Once again, Webster’s says:

Definition of WHORE

1:a woman who engages in sexual acts for money : prostitute; also : a promiscuous or immoral woman

2: a male who engages in sexual acts for money

If we take the gender out of that what are we left with?
“1. A person who engages in sex acts for money: prostitute, also: a promiscuous or immoral person.”

Now, just to hammer home the point, let’s take a look at the world promiscuous, so we’re all on the same page.

Definition of PROMISCUOUS

1: composed of all sorts of persons or things
2: not restricted to one class, sort, or person : indiscriminate <education … cheapened through the promiscuous distribution of diplomas — Norman Cousins>
3: not restricted to one sexual partner.

So, looking at all of that, a whore, if we exclude the obvious bits about fucking for money, is now defined as the following: An immoral person, regardless of gender, who is composed of all sorts of persons or things, an immoral person who is not restricted to one class, sort, or person, who is indiscriminate with their decisions, or an immoral person who is not limited to one sexual partner. Right, we’re all on the same page then that, when I say whore, this is now what I mean.

So, when you look around, when you go looking for whores, where do you find them? Where do you find immoral people, who are composed of all sorts of persons or things? Where do you find seemingly immoral people who are not restricted to one class of people, who are indiscriminate with their decisions about those around them and their choices? Where do you find people who are immoral and often not limited to one sexual partner?

I’ll tell you where I see them. I see these people sitting around in cushy seats making decisions about you and I on a daily basis. I see these people sitting on the other side of ticker tape barricades, telling us we’re all going to Hell for making our own choices for our bodies. I see these people getting fat and insulting us on the radio. I see these people going out and putting on fake smiles to get votes. I see these people standing up to tell you, bold faced, that they have integrity and value.

I see a world full of whores and a bunch of politically minded people telling us we shouldn’t have to suffer and pay for them any more – and, when I look at it like this, I think they’re right.

All sources for definitions were found and cited from http://www.merriam-webster.com/