The End of an Era

We stand, my friends, at the very brink.  On a precipice, as it were.  Staring down into a void of infinite possibilities and unsure what stirs in its Stygian depths.  Is it some variety of salvation, a desperate yearning to be free, to escape the void?  Is it Bats?  Cupcakes?  Bat-shaped cupcakes that I can keep in a belt pouch like I was some sort of baking/rodent hybrid super hero?

I'll stop the Riddler...with diabetes!

Or, more likely, is it just a bit of uncertainty and the constantly shifting winds of change?  It's probably that last one.  Although I do love me some cupcakes.  And vigilantism.  In fact, since it's almost the Christmas season if you'd like to pay for me to master the martial arts and maybe be trained as an expert cake artist in my spare time, feel free to leave a comment and we can sort out details.  I'll thank you for one, Ladytoa is sure to appreciate the other (she effing loves Karate, after all)

Internet, oh my dear, sweet Internet...very soon now, I will no longer be living with my hilarious cast of housemates (tm).  Being myself a married man, I'm sure you are thinking its strange of me to have a bunch of housemates in the first place, and you might be correct in some empirical, factual way.  But I assure you it happened pretty darned organically.  And just as organically the time is right for us to go our separate ways.  Not in life, mind you.  There was no falling out or explosive fight or anything as dramatic as all that and these people will always have a special place in my heart, and in my life.  No, the house is just full of people who are all ready to be living in their own space.  Or at least space that they cohabitate only with their nuclear families.  

That's a good thing, by the way.  I applaud the heck out of my friends for moving from our rental and transitioning into homeownership.  It happened a little more quickly than was originally scheduled, but that's ok.  They found a great place to call their own and are in the process of firming everything up.  

But where, you ask, does that leave me?  I know you're wondering because the ins and outs of my daily routine are surely the most riveting facet of your work day.  (A fact for which I really pity you, by the way.  I can barely be interested in my ramblings and I'm living through them.  I can recommend a few quite good therapists if you need someone to talk to, though.)  That leaves me, oddly enough, in a state of transition.  I don't feel the drive to go out and rent another apartment.  This is a time for me to put down roots.  To buy a home of my own, although I'm not quite there yet.  This is also a time in which I may find myself pushed outside of my liberal-elite Northeastern United States comfort zone.

Ladytoa and I had been thinking of moving, for some time now, down to the "South" which is where my mother in law lives.  The schools are good for our as-yet-nonexistant children, the costs of living are significantly lower than what I pay now and the job market and wages are right about spot on with what we're living right now.

I worry, a little bit, about the implications.  I have people up here that I know.  Places that I go and that know me.  The idea of starting completely from scratch is both slightly terrifying and dizzyingly exciting.  I can't wait to go off into the world and start a home for my wife and I.  I look forward to starting a family.  And I find myself looking with anxiety and joy and hope and fear all at the same time.

It's a great time to be me...even with a little tinge of sadness seeing a chapter close, I can't wait to start readliving the next one.  Stay tuned, people for my further adventures.  (Read-living is what you do when you make book metaphors about life.  It was, as you can see, originally a hyphenate but it grew into its own over time.  The more you know)

Knowing *is* half the battle.  The other half? Rocking out.

Markatoa - Closet Misogynist?

Alright, it's not really that much of a secret.  Obviously, I hate women.  I mean, why else would I have spent the post-pubescent, pre-marriage years of my life trying to foist my grabbing, disturbingly moist attentions onto them?  Females of the universe, you owe a mighty debt to Ladytoa.  A debt that can never be properly repaid as she has taken it onto herself to deal with all the amazingness that is my love and desperate, clumsy, amateurish "affections."  She likes money as a thank you.  Or video games.  And of course, the booze.

But enough about my abilities to devastate the libidos of the world.  I mean it.  Eventually I'll even become self-conscious about it and then where can I hide?  This blog is already where I go to hide from the rest of the world.

Anyway, Ladytoa saw a picture on the internet (where pictures live these days, after all.) that essentially said "Chivalry isn't dead, it just followed where ever 'Being Ladylike' went."  This led me to thinking.  Unfortunate as that may be for all of us about why those two concepts present a problem in this day and age.  As always, I blame the children.

People are so damned concerned with not being labelled that they do things just to be contrary.  Or get offended when offered help.  Like trying to be polite is somehow a backhanded insult because a lady could never possibly open her own door, or lift that heavy thing or stand on the subway when your ass is in a perfectly good seat.

You know what, though, women of the world?  I don't care.  I know that you're perfectly capable of all of those things.  In fact, I'd be willing to bet cold hard cash that you could probably perform any of those deeds way more efficiently than could I with my floppy noodle arms and waves of vertigo that assault me when I think of anything other than Cheetohs.

However, just because you can do a thing doesn't mean that you should have to do that thing.

Thanks for the wisdom, Dr. Malcolm.

(the above bad joke brought to you by...Jurassic Park.  Back in theaters, in 3D!)

Now, the thing is I understand that these ideas are pretty firmly rooted in a sexist view of the world.  You know the one.  The one that says women need to be protected and that you should treat them nicer than you treat other men, because.  Well, because of ladies that's why.

Now here's the thing (you knew there was a thing.  There's always a thing with me.  Sometimes it has to do with Thomas the Tank Engine, sometimes it has to do with my love of black cherry gelato.  You can never tell with me.  I'm a wild man) - I understand that there's no reason for this behavior except for the fact that the other people in this equation are women.  I know that and I'm ok with it.  Because it's polite.  Because even though the implication is there if you look for it (not too hard, mind you but you still have to look a little) that these poor, frail girls couldn't handle it on their own we all know that isn't true.  But it's still nice and it's still how you're raised.

Now this wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the fact that some of the people in the world go around looking to have fights.  And if those people were looking to have fights just to have an excuse to sing "Anything you can do, I can do better" that would be fine.  But most often, these same people who complain when you hold a door are the same people who complain that "real, polite gentlemen" don't exist anymore and that the world has been populated by barely-sapient pigs.

You know the ones.

But you can't realistically complain about a behavior disappearing when you are also simultaneously complaining that the behavior objectifies you and you hate it.

I, for one, do my best to be a gentleman.  It requires a little forethought and forces you to be courteous when you would maybe rather be selfish.  I would also say that rather than denigrating women and their valuable contributions to society that trying to treat them well in general is done as a mark of honor and respect.

Of course, thanks to the 1990's telling us that men and women are from different planets and will never, ever understand each other in any useful way (with the possible exception of full-on, nasty rage-sex) I don't think we'll ever defeat this impasse.  So, we'll just end as we began.  Do I for real hate women?  Of course not.  But I remain (and am proud, in this very specific case only, to be.) Markatoa, Closet Misogynist.

The Neverending Story is a Trainride through my Nightmares

Yeah, Internet, you read that sentence correctly.  Yes, I know it's a beloved children's classic that is supposed to teach you the power of...I don't know, love?  Stick-to-it-iveness?  Teamwork?  Who the hell cares what it's trying to be preachy about?  Not me, because every damn scene in that film is designed to take a child's soul, tear it into a million pieces, light those pieces on chemical-fueled fire and then poop on them to smother the oxygen.

And I know what you're about to say - "Markatoa, in the more civilized portions of the world we pee on things to put out the fires."  Well, you're wrong.  There's nothing civilized about the Neverending story.  It's an insane world of barbarians at the gate, constantly straining to get into the Rome of your heart and sack the hell out of that shit.  That's right - Neverending Story is the Visigoths of the children's movie world.

Falcor hates your soul.  

How can I say these things and actually mean them?  That's simple.  Two reasons, really.  We'll tackle the first one first.  Fact number one - the movie is a lie.  It ends.  It ends after like 102 minutes, which is hardly "never".  It's not even long enough that the ability to measure its length becomes meaningless.  Nope, a simple one hour and forty two minutes, then nothing.

Now, I've heard apologists say that while the "movie" ends, the story that it represents is a truly cyclical tale of personal growth and as such it can never be said to begin or end (it's so deep) and that just this one tiny snapshot is shown.  Because it only effects the one person and the story is really happening inside all of us.  Or some other bullcrap.  And you know what, hippy?  That sounds all nice and placating but at the end of the day you're just making crap up to feel better about the fact that some director pulled the wool over your eyes and you'll never get that time back.

The second, and far more disturbing reason, is that the whole goddamned movie, and I mean the whole thing, is predicated on and pretty much solely about dongs and children.  It's a film that exists just to put kids and penises together in a way that won't get those responsible incarcerated for the rest of their lives.

Seriously, go to a park right now (do not do this).  One that has children playing in it (seriously, don't do what I'm about to say.  It's a bad idea).  And just in a conversational, somewhat jolly tone say "Would anyone like to ride my furry luck dragon?" (disclaimer - if you did not listen to my first two attempts to tell you not to do this, you will be beaten and pepper sprayed).  Go ahead and try it.  I dare you.  You'll end up in jail being rogered by a lifer sooner than you can say "I meant that literally."

And don't even get my started on that oddly phallic turtle thing.  The one that just sprays its manjuice all over unsuspecting kids?  You know the one.  Sure, they call it a "sneeze" in the script.  That's how they got it past the censors.  But you show a dick shaped thing spraying a sticky white substance on anyone in any other movie and you're getting an X rating.

Who thought any of this was a good idea, and to what purpose?  Not that author of the book who asked that his name be removed from the credits.  Is it some sort of secret mid-80's code to the children of the world that some day they're just going to have to grin and bear it while the dongs of the world grease them up and use them?  Just don't worry about it, it happens to everyone eventually because the whole world exists to do nothing other than eff you?  Possibly in the "a"?

Don't get me wrong, there's a valuable life lesson there to the my wives of the world. Just get through it, because in the end everything in this seemingly neverending marriage is about my privates.

I suppose in the spirit of full disclosure I should mention that I haven't watched this movie in like 24 years and it's ever so slightly possible that my memories are a little fuzzy and jaded.  But probably not.

Crass Consumerism out to get your momma.

There are times when I wonder why we, as a country (we being the United States of America in this instance), are so fat.  I mean we've got wide open plains and mountains and whatnot.  We can run and jump and climb trees.  I live in a not-huge suburban town and there are no fewer than four gym/health clubs within two miles of my house.  This should not be a thing that is a gigantic worry, but it is.

And during my recent attempts (successful thus far) at losing weight and becoming shapes I have come to a realization.  A realization that people throughout the rest of the world have probably come to before me but which reverberated down into the bottom of my soul.  It nested there and then spread throughout the various other layers of body and soul - ba and ka and kidneys.  The thing I realized is this:  America is, as they say, straight trippin', boo.  And that is a thing that they're still saying.

Now, you might think that with our correct reelection of the President (ooooh, Politics) that we as a people no longer "be tripping" but you would be wrong.  Wronger than literally every move that monkey made when I tried to teach him Parcheesi.

It's a simple goddamned concept.  Stupid monkey.

I ran into a situation not too long ago where the world was literally attempting to make me a fatter person.  Like somewhere, in a room there was a group of people dedicated to making everything about my life less healthful.  Not even that group that tries to tell me that smoking is cool or that it doesn't hurt to be "a little addicted" to meth.  Nope - it's a group of people in the food service industry.  And they can suck it.

Every day during my lunch hour, I take a walk down to a local franchise eatery.  Since I've been trying to lose the weights I transitioned to the point of having a "roasted chicken salad".  Then I walk back to work.  Total caloric balance for those playing along at home? Intake of about 150 kC, output of approx 340 kC as of my most recent measuring (this past Monday).

This fine day, the young lady who works the counter advised me that the cost of my salad had gone up.  Ok, whatever.   I can get that.  It wasn't a huge increase, and really why bother complaining?  I'm still getting out and exercising, at least a little bit.  Right? Right.  Well, then she tells me that I can save some money by buying the double meat version of the salad.

Wait...this place which advertises itself as the more healthy alternative to fast food would like to encourage me to eat pretty much twice the calories of what I intend to put in my body?  Why could this be?  Do these diabolical madmen want me to eat more calories just so my weight loss goals are harder to attain?  Then, I'll keep eating there since it's the only "healthy" alternative?

I get selling in volume or giving people a slight discount to make a "meal" instead of buying things a la carte.  I do, I accept that as a thing that happens.  But what can be the business decision here?  You are providing me less of a product.  Less of a product that is of the same kind and quality as your other offerings and yet you would like me to pay you more for the benefit of you keeping more of your product to sell to your other customers?  And if I wanted to eat that much meat on a sandwich it would cost me extra?

Has the entirety of the food world gone all topsy-turvy?  Become peopled solely by the most insane minds that could claw their way into positions of corporate governance?

Never mind.  I guess we all knew the answer to that.

I managed not to strangle the poor girl, but only just.  I know that some of you are probably thinking "why not just buy the cheaper salad and not eat all the meat?"  and while that's a valid thought process and sound argument (I suppose) it misses the point.  And the point is, I wanted to complain.  I wanted to complain in a place that I own and where there is literally no accountability whatsoever.  A place where I can complain in my underpants without my wife reminding me that company is coming over tonight.  (Yes, I am writing this at work.  My boss yelling at me is totally different than my wife harping on me about covering my hang down.)

And for that, as in so many other ways in my life...Mission Accomplished.

God Created Holidays to Test the Faithful.

Or maybe that's Dune.  I don't know.  I can never tell.  In either one, though, there's some crazy people with weird all-seeing blue eyes just looking to straight up destroy us.  Which, when you think about it is sort of weird.  I mean, blue eyes in the desert?  That seems like just a bad plan - I get that the Spice is making them more sensitive to the future, but also...more sensitive to light?  On a planet that's pretty much always bright?  Good job there, Shai-hulud.  Praise the Maker indeed.

(and no, photophobic increase in light sensitivity is not a myth.  The myth is that you're more likely to experience permanent damage due to bright lights if you have lighter colored eyes.  God, read a book.  Internet.)

Anyway, in a topic that's probably not entirely related to the struggles of Arrakis - the Holidays.  See?  I brought it back there.  After only like two paragraphs, too.  I'm getting better at this.  So - if you're in North America (like I am) or even more specifically the United States (again, like I am) you will have noticed something of late.  Something dark.  Something sinister that waits for you to show the slightest moment of weakness.  Something a lot like this tubby bastard.

You can tell he's evil.  He's smoking the pot.

The day after Halloween this year, I noticed that as stores were in the process of throwing out their plastic headstones and "bleeding" candles and whatnot that in their place they were proudly starting to display their Christmas decorations.  What what WHAT?  Christmas decorations in November?  Early November, no less?  The hell you say.  THE HELL.

I had a conversation that sounded a lot like that the other day with a member of my hilarious cast of housemates (remember them?  I know I do.)  Housemate A was upset because they were cheapening the Christmas spirit, and commercializing the holidays while even cheapening the awesomeness that is Thanksgiving, which is also too commercial these days what with all the parades and the shopping and such.

I mentioned to H-A that the only person she has to blame for things like that are shoppers who are willing to buy things so incredibly off season and patronize stores having Christmas sales this early.  She admitted that I was probably correct.  Which I was, because I'm gorram awesome.  I then told her that the simplest way to reverse this trend was if all of the people who wanted to loudly complain about this problem in person and on Facebook (which is where the 21st century goes to complain and literally do nothing else. EVER.) 

To which she responded..."but I like sales."

BAM!  Woman, you are the exact problem that you're in the process of complaining about.  And not in that way where "if you're not part of the solution, you're a part of the problem"  or "if you're not with us you're against us" or "fifty-four forty or fight!" or any of the other great propaganda slogans used throughout history.  I mean that you are the literal cause of people extending the holiday shopping season.  You spend your money and then ask them to make it so you don't need to wake up at 3:00 am on the Friday after Thanksgiving...and when they do you bitch.

As much as I love my friends and appreciate the fact that my hilarious cast of housemates allows me to continue to, ya' know, not be homeless, I find it ironic that people demand to have their needs met and then complain loudly when people are providing them a service they asked for.  

It's for reasons like that that Santa Clause has retreated deeper into his subterranean layer, forcing his elves to make ever more complicated toys (and also death rays) for the day that he rises up to take back the day that was his but has been hijacked by ingrates.  One day soon, he'll hitch up the reindeer and lay waste to the entire world in just one night.  Because, after all, the spirits can do it all in one night.

I have completely lost control of anything resembling a coherent narrative at this point. Which is, I'm sure, the problem with sitting down and talking about Santa Clause when I should be doing work.  But if I don't talk about Santa then I'm way more likely to get coal.

Deep in the Sounds of Silence.

Not the Dr. Who villains (spoiler alert - they don't like sound).  Not even in the manner of a classic Simon and/or Garfunkle song.  No, I just mean general silence.  Silence like not posting on my blog terribly often.

I know that no one in the world is terribly concerned with that silence, but I am going to comment on it nonetheless.  As it turns out, Internet, I have feels.  I have feels that I feel very deeply at times.  Sometimes these feels amount to what therapists and other medical whatnot folk refer to as "depression".

I mean, not like I'm horribly self-abusing or anything.  But I have had a hard time finding the jokes in life, and there have been some serious issues going on in my headspace that require actual things to be said to actual people.  Sadly, since the entire purpose of this blog was to make sure it was only seen fleetingly and accidentally by the world at large, it's not like this is a thing that I can appeal to for help for well-intentioned strangers who are willing to listen to my problems.

Also, the person who I would mostly talk to these sorts of issues with has been acting sort of like a douchehorse so I don't really want to have that conversation with him.

Anyway, point being - if you are one of those accidental viewers who sometimes found my crappy posts to be at least vaguely amusing I apologize for my absence.  Hopefully soon I'll be back in the world and telling ever more ridiculous thoughts that exist in my brainpan.