Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Taking You Down a Notch

This was written by Vince Stamper...call him a Guest Blogger today :-)





Mike was a popular kid-one of those kids that everyone seemed to look up to. He was charming, gregarious, and a class clown in a way that was mistaken as witty. His family was successful, in a small town way. He always wore the latest fashions, which in 1979 Oregon was Britannia Jeans, Nike waffle shoes, and a colorful T-shirt that would now be coveted by Hipsters. His parents would take him and his friends to concerts in Portland. In hindsight might have been a bit inappropriate for fifth graders, especially dropping off unescorted ten year olds for Styx, Van Halen and AC/DC shows. They would come back with concert T-shirts, and whisper stories of sneaking in booze and smoking pot, which in hindsight was designed to make the rest of us feel childish and unsophisticated.
One time he looked at me and said “you are really smart.” Anyone overhearing it would have assumed it was a compliment. The smirk on his face belied the true intent. In that moment, we both understood that I might be smart, but it didn’t matter, because he was popular.
Unwittingly, he was practicing what what those in today’s Pick Up Artist community would call the perfect Neg. It was a Low-grade insult disguised as a compliment, meant to undermine self-confidence such that one might be more vulnerable to his advances. I later watched him do it to girls in our school, for an entirely different objective, but the intent was the same.
Occasionally he would seek me out to partner on some class assignment, or to try and get help with homework or test answers. It was a small price to pay to be included in some of those whispered conversations, and to be acknowledged, if only temporarily by him and his friends.
As time passed, I became less enamored and tolerant of his antics. It was a bipolar kind of relationship: friendly when it served a purpose, and ugly when ridiculing or shunning me would win points with his friends. I started to see his insecurity grow as my own athletic abilities began to overshadow his compulsion for sports, and as girls started to notice me. That is when the shunning and ridicule began in earnest. I was starting to infringe on his brand, and see just how fragile it was. Despite his superior ball handling skills, and my clumsiness, I was a 6’3’’ seventh grader who could run mile after mile at a seven minute pace. In hindsight, his and other boys’ efforts were amazingly effective in putting me in my place. Despite the fact that I easily could have made my father’s day by becoming a Football or Basketball star, by High School I opted for the far less popular Cross Country and Track. I was no longer a threat to Mike, and he didn’t bother with the compliments. There was an implied truce in which I could be smart, and athletic, as long as I was not popular, or pursued any of the girls he or his friends found attractive, and so I dated girls from out of town, and kept my head relatively low. I became a loner and a nerd.
Yesterday, Carrie went to the gas station, and paid at the pump, but when she tried to put gas in the car, the pump would not reset. She walked into the mini mart, and the cliché Middle Eastern attendant stated that “It should work fine now, have a nice day.” In hindsight he seemed a little smug, but she dismissed it and went out to fill the tank. One of the customers that had been in line inside came out to his car. As he passed he laughingly told her “the attendant was bragging that he purposely did not reset the pump because he wanted to get a closer look at you.” When Carrie shared this, and her disgust that some man made her waste time walking into the store when she could have been finishing putting gas in the car and been on her way, she was told she should consider it a compliment. Under different circumstances this type of unsolicited attention might be a compliment. If it came from someone Carrie would actually consider flirting with, like Brad Pitt or George Clooney, or she had gone to extraordinary lengths to dress or groom herself for a special occasion, then it might have been welcome from someone she knew and felt safe with. Under these circumstances it was just a Neg. You might be smart, accomplished, sexy and feminine, but I am a man, and I can make you have to walk into my store if I want to get a closer look.

Monday, June 16, 2014

Bully Nation





Tripping around the internet is like watching a circle firing squad. I try to avoid it, but inevitably there are topics that interest me, that I have a passion for and I end up reading someone's "news" story, blog or general opinion. No way to avoid it, really, being a world citizen of the intartubes. I work to keep my involvement to a minimum, at the very least. There is always something to be outraged about. Over the years I've learned to modify how I deal with issues on the internet to save myself endless amounts of grief. "Choose your battles" has become the mantra I live by. We all have opinions, it's impossible to agree on everything, but it is possible to be kind when imparting your worldview....and we can skip the hatred and cruelty altogether.

This morning I saw a friend's post on Facebook regarding Will and Jada Smith. The thumbnail was a very attractive shot of Jada's shapely butt and Will's lovely, sculptured arms. The couple was frolicking on a beach with their children somewhere sunny and gorgeous. A moment of family bliss. Apparently it wasn't enough that these two beautiful people are middle-aged and have obviously worked very hard to maintain themselves to Hollywood's ridiculous standards. My Facebook friend's problem came from the comments on the story, which was on TMZ, obviously the lowest common denominator in cheap, tabloid bullshit. He couldn't believe the level of derision and judgement on the part of people who read the article. The comments are so full of hate that it boggles the mind. Will and Jada are called out because they are: "Ugly, bad parents, entitled assholes, have ugly children" and various laments regarding their celebrity stature.

Why is it that people feel free to say hateful things when they hide behind the internet? Chances are they'll never meet the people they are insulting. Is it that anonymity that encourages people to bully other people? How do they believe they can assess personal, private issues of other people and speak about them with any expertise? Maybe they think that the person they are slamming will never see the comment. If that's the case, why even say it? Following the trail of their broken logic leads me to believe that they are looking for approval from their peers, a sad "pat-on-the-back-way-to-go-man!" The kind of thing we used to see in High School. Either that, or they enjoy seeing their own words tear down someone to make themselves feel better. People want to feel powerful, they want to be "winners." "Winning" is seen as "beating up" your rivals, then doing a victory dance in the end-zone. Whatever it is that motivates people to be hateful, it's gawdawful to witness.

What if kindness was seen as a positive attribute in all people? What if empathy was something human beings strove for when determining their place in society?

It's not just celebrities who end up in the cross-hairs of focused hate. Women who speak up against misogyny and patriarchy, gay people who stand up against hate and discrimination, transgender people who are demanding their basic human rights. Hell, anyone who happens to fall into the public spotlight is subject to public scrutiny, cruelty and even death threats.

I think there are many layers to the problem of cruelty in our culture. I do not believe empathy is encouraged in our society. People who are snarky, nasty and mean are seen as "clever" and the bad behavior of ripping other people to shreds is lauded as crafty and funny. We send mixed messages of kindness/cruelty with campaigns against bullies, but on the same flip of a coin we see people campaigning against bullies bullying people themselves. In movies we root for the abused underdog, the downtrodden...and we encourage the bullies, we lift them up to heroic stature. The conflicted models are very visible and obvious. They exist together in a disharmonious claptrap of confusion.

There is also a public shaming of people who stand up against hate-filled dialog. People are told that we are living in a "Culture of Offense" and that if they see/hear something that is offensive to them, they ought to just let it pass without saying anything because "If you're offended it's only because you let yourself be," not that what was said was offensive. Shaming people into silence because you do not agree on what is/is not offensive is bullying. It is. You cannot dictate to others what they find hurtful. Is some of it silly? To you, perhaps. My biggest question here boils down to this: How difficult is it for you to be conscious of other people's feelings, how hard is it for you to be kind?

There have been times in my life where admittedly I did the same thing. Not to the extent that some do, but I said hurtful things to people I'd never meet, comments based on my own insecurities about myself at that time, or judgments I made against other people based on my personal belief system and programming. Today I work to understand other people, their current situations and life experiences. It is not my responsibility to judge people's choices. I think it is ALL of our responsibility to call out bullying, hate and cruelty. Hopefully we can create a movement where we stand up against abusing other people, all people.

Kindness is not difficult. If it is then we're doing something wrong and we ought to have a discussion as to why it's such a Herculean task.

Thursday, February 13, 2014

Fuck You, Valentine's Day.....









Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. I think it's high-time we stopped this stupid holiday in it's tracks. I mean, what's it really worth? What's it doing for all of us collectively? To the people who sell flowers, chocolates, diamonds and lingerie probably a lot. We shouldn't have holidays for profit...wait. Christmas. Never mind. That's for Jesus.




There is a certain palpable anxiety this time of year. Not just for my single friends, but for EVERYONE. This day, February 14th, is an erotic doomsday for most people. It's the day you acknowledge the fact that nobody loves you or it's that day you have to "prove your love" through some expensive gesture that means absolutely nothing. The commercials are running in quick succession to help you navigate. Buying diamonds will DEFINITELY get you laid. Taking her out to dinner will get you pats on the back from your buddies and most likely you'll experience the worst service you've ever imagined. Either way it's fucked up. I'm sick of it....I have tried for many years to spearhead an alternative to Valentine's Day. My holiday would be "National Blowjob Day" and this would be a fantastic day for both men and women (this is blowjobs for women, too, guys.) I can think of nothing better than "going down" to express your affections. It's the perfect gift. Love should be free.




Our society is filled with ridiculous expectations that leave people constantly starving for affection. The expectations for someone coming into our lives is impossibly high. They need to sweep in and "complete" us. Then they have to continue being fucking amazing until we die holding hands at 90. It's not obtainable or maintainable. It's meant to be impossible. We're not supposed to be happy. Happy people don't make good slaves.




Love isn't free or even affordable to the masses. It has to be purchased. Love has become a commodity. People who are unable to sustain love in their lives are made to feel inadequate and unlovable. NOBODY is unlovable. I have come to the conclusion that for these people, which are most people, maintaining healthy relationships is damned near IMPOSSIBLE. To have a healthy marriage you need to be a combination of Mahatma Gandhi and Superman/woman, forgive large personality shortcomings and able be to leap tall arguments in a single bound. That, and living with some 24/7 is HARD. There are the tiny mind-numbing personal habits of that sexy person you live with day in and day out. The dirty underwear on the floor, the "I have to cut my spaghetti with scissors," his habit of "dropping the kids off at the pool" while I'm trying to take a relaxing bath. Don't even get me started on my annoying habits. You couldn't pay me to live with me. I have heard of couples in a domestic dispute over bad meatloaf. Seemingly small mole-hills become mountains overnight. Friends, I have walked across the interior valley of Hell half-wacky in love....and 28 years later I'd do it all over again. Because that's what love is. Love, given enough time, changes your DNA.




Love is fighting over money. Love is making the hard decisions. Love is raising kids in a fucked-up world, teaching them to look for the beauty in a world where there's a sad lack of it. Love is being brave and sometimes taking stupid chances together. Love is making epic mistakes. Love is forgiving unforgivable infractions. Love is understanding lusting after other human beings. Love makes you accountable. Love is farting toxically next to someone on the couch or hot-boxing them in bed and knowing they only love you more for your glorious stench. Love is imperfection. Love is broken and whole simultaneously. Love is being completely selfless. Love is taking care of yourself despite being completely selfless. Love is individual and impossible to explain to an outsider. Love is economical, but your mileage may vary. Love is stepping off that ledge. Love is accepting that you're going to get the living shit beat out of you on occasion, then opening your arms and let it come at you. Love is bigger if you share it. Love is letting go.




Everyone deserves love. Everyone. Very few can actually have it in the current construct of the vapid and fake human landscape where nothing seems to make any sense. The place where you're supposed to be super-human and perfect. Women are supposed to be ethereally beautiful forever to earn love, have perfect boobs, be the perfect wife/mother then when the babies are asleep, drop her panties and be the fantasy woman every man dreams of fucking. Men should have six-figures in their bank account at all times, have a 9 inch dick, make you come over and over in soul-fucking-sex-sessions that last two hours...then cry with you watching "Terms of Endearment" on Netflix. Sometimes that happens. Most of the time it's about taking out the garbage and throwing dirty socks into the washer and marveling at the Butt-Gnome's ability to steal your favorites.




I say we all say "fuck it" to Valentine's Day. I suggest we all love each other a little more. Let's be more honest and open. Let's face our ugliness, pettiness and acknowledge that we ALL deserve love and should ALL have love....lots of it. Let's "get real." Let's change things. Let's throw out the unobtainable expectations. We've all seen how love can change the world, but in order to see that change large-scale we need to repossess and redefine what love means. We need to acknowledge that there is a "love inequality." We've all seen what economic inequality can do. We are smack-dab in the middle of extreme-love-impoverishment. The situation has gotten so dire that people go to "cuddle-parties" and somehow this seems normal to us. "Cracker Barrel" love.




I'm deeply in love and Valentine's Day is dead to me. Until everyone has the love they deserve Valentine's Day can go and fuck itself. Time for a Love Revolution.

Thursday, February 6, 2014

Addiction: For All of the Ones We've Lost





When did we become so judgmental when it comes to addiction? Why do we feel the need to project our personal feelings and beliefs onto people we don't know, and will never know? These people that we sit in judgement of are made up of unique experiences that differ from ours like grains of sand on a beach. They are the product of good families or dysfunctional families. They have been unbelievably abused or have never experienced any pain at the hands of another human being. They have a family that has been affected by addiction in varying degrees--or they never had anyone in their lives who suffered from addiction. They have enormously supportive people in their lives or they don't. They have everything or nothing to live for. What I'm trying to convey here is that addiction doesn't have a "Modus Operandi." Anyone can become an addict. Certainly there are factors that seem to make it more likely, but there are no defining common threads that we can follow that allow us to stop it.

After actor Phillip Seymour Hoffman passed away last Sunday from an overdose of heroin the internet has EXPLODED with bloggers and columnists putting their two-cents in as to what happened, why it happened and what should be done about addiction. I've read scathing judgments about his irresponsibility, that he has young children that he has summarily left behind. He was so talented, so brilliant, think of how much life he had left ahead of him, he was SO YOUNG. How dare he? It's called addiction. It happens everyday. It crosses all racial and socio-economic lines. Old and young. Your level of personal intellect is irrelevant. You can't outsmart addiction. And there's no tried-and-true "cure." Not A.A., not "pull youself up by your bootstraps!" Not some self-help book written by someone who has never experienced addiction who says that addiction isn't a "disease" and that people simply need to take control of their lives to kick it. Some things work for some, other methods for others...and sometimes absolutely nothing seems to work. And guess what? That's okay. It is. Sometimes there is no "saving" an addict. There just isn't. We shouldn't judge them or ourselves for that harsh reality. It just "is."

I know addiction well. I grew up with it. It permeated every aspect of my life during my formative years. It made me question my importance to the addicts in my life. "If they just loved me more than the alcohol and drugs they'd stop using." Addiction made me the woman I am today. It defined me. It's in my DNA. I have lost everyone in my family to addiction in one way or another. Some overdosed, some lingered for 30 years in denial and slow decline. The result was exactly the same. They're gone now and those of us left behind are left to question why it happened and how we could have changed their fate. The guilt for people who love an addict is limitless. Boundless. And irrational.

My sister was an alcoholic from the time she was 14 years old. She used alcohol and drugs as an escape from a terrible family life with parents who were chronic alcoholics. They were the finest examples of alcoholics. They were the kind who never admitted anything was wrong. Well, one did...and the other never would admit they had a problem. It's funny how different people handle addiction. Most are ashamed. I think we can all accept that as a universal truth.

Our mother finally went to Alcoholics Anonymous when I was about seven and Lonnie was fourteen. My father was a high-functioning alcoholic with a high-power career and a wandering eye. His alcoholism was different than my mother's in that he seemed to have the ability to pull himself together when things got ugly. Some people have that skill. Others don't. That's another mystery I'll never unravel. After 28 years of marriage he decided it was easier to embark on a new life rather than stop to pick up the pieces of a family he created, wreaked havoc upon and left splintered in his abusive wake. He married a woman who was more than 20 years younger than my mother. He met her when he was a college professor and she was his student. This left my already mentally and emotionally unstable mother in a terrible state of depression and deepening alcoholism. When she finally made it to her first meeting she had spent some time in different hospitals in an attempt to control her addiction. I remember her taking a drug called "Antabuse." That didn't even stop her. She'd take the medication, continue to drink vodka and become violently ill as a result. She complained about it, but just kept going. We're talking about a woman with a will of iron, though. When my father finally had to admit he was helpless in his attempts to control my mother's alcoholism, he had gone to work having packed every single pair of her shoes into the trunk of his car. This, he thought, would surely stop her from walking the five miles to Raley's supermarket to buy her vodka. It was one of the few times it actually snowed in the idyllic suburban subdivision of El Dorado Hills, California. She walked the five miles barefoot in the freezing snow and got what she needed to feed the beast. It wasn't a wonder he threw his hands up and ran, I suppose. That's one of the things that I've had to come to terms with, that there is really nobody to be angry at or blame when it comes to addiction. It's like a human tsunami that just destroys anything in it's path without regard for rational things. It ignores people's needs or feelings. It doesn't care. It can't. It isn't capable of caring.

At this point I was the only one left with mom. My father had left in pursuit of his new life. My brother had graduated high school, got a job, was supporting himself and had an apartment in Sacramento. My sister who was almost fifteen met a man during one of the numerous occasions she ran away from home, fell in love and moved to San Francisco to be with him. Escape seemed like a pretty great plan, unfortunately it wasn't an option for me. I got to sit and watch the carnage. Surprisingly enough I'm pretty grateful for that now. The lessons I learned were valuable and I'm not sure I would have been able to understand the addiction of people I loved if I hadn't gone through it. I went with my mother to many A.A. meetings in the years that followed. At first I would sit in the kitchen of the church the meetings were held at and draw pictures of horses for a couple of hours. I would overhear the terrible stories that the people sitting around the table would tell, baring their alcoholic souls. There was the woman who would get drunk in bars only to wake up after a black-out naked on park benches. She had taken off her clothes to bundle them under her head for a pillow. Some I remember in great detail, some I don't remember at all, but the horror stories and heartache seemed never ending. People lost families, homes, jobs, friends, happiness and hope. Hearing these tales did two things for me. They scared the living hell out of me, and they also helped me understand that my mother wasn't the only addict in the world. They did terrible things. They hurt the people they loved. They wreaked lives. They couldn't seem to help that. It's not that they didn't want to. They just weren't able to. Eventually I sat at the table with my mother. I made friends with all of the people there. I felt a kinship and an understanding with these alcoholics. I felt acceptance. There were many there who bared their souls in front of me, some that would disappear for months only to drag themselves back looking like warmed-over death. They told stories about falling back into drinking again. They talked about how easy it was, seamless. After hearing them recount over and over about relapsing one thing became really clear: there was no common thread for why they did it. For some it was stress, others were just in a mix of people who encouraged the behavior, yet others had no reason at all. I never was able to understand that completely. I still don't. It just "is." Many didn't have what A.A. referred to as a "Higher Power"--my mom was one of those, and surprisingly there were quite a few who fell into that category. Even though it is frowned on in the A.A. world, they admitted that they were able to find that strength inside themselves. For others that wasn't effective. Some people needed something "more" in order to change their behavior. They needed ritual. Some people seemed to thrive in the "Twelve-Step" program, they appreciated the strictness of the definitions. Others struggled with it. It was all okay, whatever it took. In my mother's A.A. group it seemed a bit more flexible. The point of the matter was staying sober.

Some would leave and never come back. In the years that followed we would hear about their passing. It was just the reality. I remember that people in that A.A. crowd were never judgmental about that. I suppose they saw enough of themselves in the ones who "failed" that it gave them a certain humility about it all. I learned so much from those people about addiction, forgiveness and understanding. I also took away lessons that I wouldn't fully realize until nearly forty years later. The cold fact that sometimes nothing helps. Those of us who are left behind demanding answers are assured of one thing. We won't get them.

My sister Lonnie saw most of the same things I did as a kid, we all witnessed alcoholism close-up and firsthand. She wasn't privy to the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. I wonder sometimes if that would have given her better insight of what would lay ahead for her. That's one of the beautiful things about the legacy of being unable to save someone you love from addiction--you constantly wonder, "if I had just done/said this, maybe they'd still be alive?" It's something that took me years to get past. I still fight it. If I'd just worked harder, loved her more she'd still be here. I could have saved her. She was my constant companion as a child. She was the person who could make me laugh no matter how ugly our reality was. She and I clung to each other in the turmoil of the dysfunction in our family. Together we could make sense of it all. For years we would talk everyday on the phone, we'd share everything. Well, not everything. She would never admit that she was an alcoholic. EVER. Even when she was hospitalized because she had blown out her pancreas. It was just something that happened to people, she'd say. Even though she drank a twelve-pack of beer every single night of the week. Every night. For thirty years. When she'd visit the first thing she'd do was visit the grocery store and make sure our fridge was fully stocked with beer because we would never have any. I was terrified of the stuff. I kept it out of my life.

It's so hard to encompass thirty years of experience in this small writing. Thirty years of trying, crying my eyes out and ultimately building up walls of protection from what I knew in my heart would be the ultimate outcome. I cherished my sister. We went through incredible difficulties, and we also had some of the most memorable, beautiful experiences of my life together. So many conflicted feelings here. The whole family knew she had problems, that she was an alcoholic. My mother and I would talk about it, my father and I would talk about it. We'd discuss attempting an intervention. She had married the man she ran away with when she was fifteen. He was also in deep denial about my sister's alcoholism. He was an alcoholic, too. He was controlling. We were told by both of them that there were no problems, "nothing to see here, move along." Even after her pancreatitis became full-blown, requiring repeated hospital stays she would never budge. It wasn't alcoholism. Nope. I told her how much I loved her, continued to confront her with the truth for years and STILL she would not respond. I told her over and over that if she ever needed me I would be right there to help her, that together we could make it through. Nothing. She would often call me while she was drunk, pouring out her pain. She would never talk about the root of the problem. It was like watching someone you love drowning while you are standing there witnessing it safely from the shore. You just stand there helplessly. There is absolutely no way I can let you know how that feels. Unless you've experienced that utter heartbreak firsthand there's no way to explain it. This affected everyone in her life who was watching as her beautiful soul disappeared while we stood by and watched it leave. Powerless.

I lost my sister a little over a year ago. She had a massive stroke and only survived a couple of months after that happened. She eventually passed away because her entire body, ravaged by chronic alcoholism, just broke down and gave up. It was a horribly painful way to die. I told her how much I loved her while she was lying in that hospital bed. When she died I spent countless days crying about her leaving this earth, something I knew in my heart was going to happen eventually. I was inconsolable. The finality of her dying was more than I could bear. I tripped back over years and years of conversations and actions. All the things that I could have done differently. I was angry at her, myself, my parents, her husband. SOMEONE failed her. SOMETHING could have been done. But it couldn't have been and wasn't. It just "was." That's what I was left with after it was all over. Sometimes there's just nothing you can do. It doesn't mean we failed, or that we didn't love that person with all our heart. We do. We just can't control addiction. The home-truth I came to was that we do all we can, we can continue to be honest with the addicts in our lives, even if it drives them away. But we can't save them. We also need to protect ourselves, take care of ourselves and understand when we've done the best we can and can do no more. Don't be angry at yourself or the addict. Have empathy for them and their situation even if they've seemingly used up all your generosity of spirit. Continue to love them, and tell them you love them--often and without hesitation. Tomorrow they may be gone. You can't know what should have been done. Nobody does. You don't have the answers to fix the addiction problem, it's not one-size-fits-all. If it was we would have solved this problem a long time ago. No "cures," no basic human attribute like "strong will" or having "something to live for" will cure addiction. Sometimes we just lose them, and there wasn't a damned thing we could do. I think that might be a hardest thing we have to face. Everyone in my family is gone now, and all I can do is learn from all this pain. Something good came from all of it. I understand. And I learned I can't save someone no matter how much I love them. And that's okay.