Oh.

Well that explains everything.

The rest of the world just needs to catch up.

How Did You Die?

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble’s a ton, or a trouble’s an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it.
And it isn’t the fact that you’re hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what’s that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It’s nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there – that’s disgrace.
The harder you’re thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn’t the fact that you’re licked that counts;
It’s how did you fight and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could;
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he’s slow or spry,
It isn’t that fact that you’re dead that counts,
But only how did you die?

-Edmund Vance Cooke

Christmas Depends On Your Age.

Via Oatmeal!

How To Be Alone

Why You're Not Married

You want to get married. It's taken a while to admit it. Saying it out loud -- even in your mind -- feels kind of desperate, kind of unfeminist, kind of definitely not you, or at least not any you that you recognize. Because you're hardly like those girls on TLC saying yes to the dress and you would never compete for a man like those poor actress-wannabes on The Bachelor.

Then, something happened. Another birthday, maybe. A breakup. Your brother's wedding. His wife-elect asked you to be a bridesmaid, and suddenly there you were, wondering how in hell you came to be 36-years-old, walking down the aisle wearing something halfway decent from J. Crew that you could totally repurpose with a cute pair of boots and a jean jacket. You started to hate the bride -- she was so effing happy -- and for the first time ever you began to have feelings about the fact that you're not married. You never really cared that much before. But suddenly (it was so sudden) you found yourself wondering... Deep, deep breath... Why you're not married.

Well, I know why.

How? It basically comes down to this: I've been married three times. Yes, three. To a very nice MBA at 19; a very nice minister's son at 32 (and pregnant); and at 40, to a very nice liar and cheater who was just like my dad, if my dad had gone to Harvard instead of doing multiple stints in federal prison.

I was, for some reason, born knowing how to get married. Growing up in foster care is a big part of it. The need for security made me look for very specific traits in the men I dated -- traits it turns out lead to marriage a surprisingly high percentage of the time. Without really trying to, I've become a sort of jailhouse lawyer of relationships -- someone who's had to do so much work on her own case that I can now help you with yours.

But I won't lie. The problem is not men, it's you. Sure, there are lame men out there, but they're not really standing in your way. Because the fact is -- if whatever you're doing right now was going to get you married, you'd already have a ring on it. So without further ado, let's look at the top six reasons why you're not married.

1. You're a Bitch.
Here's what I mean by bitch. I mean you're angry. You probably don't think you're angry. You think you're super smart, or if you've been to a lot of therapy, that you're setting boundaries. But the truth is you're pissed. At your mom. At the military-industrial complex. At Sarah Palin. And it's scaring men off.

The deal is: most men just want to marry someone who is nice to them. I am the mother of a 13-year-old boy, which is like living with the single-cell protozoa version of a husband. Here's what my son wants out of life: macaroni and cheese, a video game, and Kim Kardashian. Have you ever seen Kim Kardashian angry? I didn't think so. You've seen Kim Kardashian smile, wiggle, and make a sex tape. Female anger terrifies men. I know it seems unfair that you have to work around a man's fear and insecurity in order to get married -- but actually, it's perfect, since working around a man's fear and insecurity is big part of what you'll be doing as a wife.

2. You're Shallow.
When it comes to choosing a husband, only one thing really, truly matters: character. So it stands to reason that a man's character should be at the top of the list of things you are looking for, right? But if you're not married, I already know it isn't. Because if you were looking for a man of character,you would have found one by now. Men of character are, by definition, willing to commit.

Instead, you are looking for someone tall. Or rich. Or someone who knows what an Eames chair is. Unfortunately, this is not the thinking of a wife. This is the thinking of a teenaged girl. And men of character do not want to marry teenaged girls. Because teenage girls are never happy. And they never feel like cooking, either.

3. You're a Slut.
Hooking up with some guy in a hot tub on a rooftop is fine for the ladies of Jersey Shore -- but they're not trying to get married. You are. Which means, unfortunately, that if you're having sex outside committed relationships, you will have to stop. Why? Because past a certain age, casual sex is like recreational heroin -- it doesn't stay recreational for long.

That's due in part to this thing called oxytocin -- a bonding hormone that is released when a woman a) nurses her baby and b) has an orgasm -- that will totally mess up your casual-sex game. It's why you can be f**k-buddying with some dude who isn't even all that great and the next thing you know, you're totally strung out on him. And you have no idea how it happened. Oxytocin, that's how it happened. And since nature can't discriminate between marriage material and Charlie Sheen, you're going to have to start being way more selective than you are right now.

4. You're a Liar.
It usually goes something like this: you meet a guy who is cute and likes you, but he's not really available for a relationship. He has some condition that absolutely precludes his availability, like he's married, or he gets around town on a skateboard. Or maybe he just comes right out and says something cryptic and open to interpretation like, "I'm not really available for a relationship right now."

You know if you tell him the truth -- that you're ready for marriage -- he will stop calling. Usually that day. And you don't want that. So you just tell him how perfect this is because you only want to have sex for fun! You love having fun sex! And you don't want to get in a relationship at all! You swear!
About ten minutes later, the oxytocin kicks in. You start wanting more. But you don't tell him that. That's your secret -- just between you and 22,000 of your closest girlfriends. Instead, you hang around, having sex with him, waiting for him to figure out that he can't live without you. I have news: he will never "figure" this out. He already knows he can live without you just fine. And so do you. Or you wouldn't be lying to him in the first place.

5. You're Selfish.
If you're not married, chances are you think a lot about you. You think about your thighs, your outfits, your naso-labial folds. You think about your career, or if you don't have one, you think about doing yoga teacher training. Sometimes you think about how marrying a wealthy guy -- or at least a guy with a really, really good job -- would solve all your problems.

Howevs, a good wife, even a halfway decent one, does not spend most of her day thinking about herself. She has too much s**t to do, especially after having kids. This is why you see a lot of celebrity women getting husbands after they adopt. The kids put the woman on notice: Bitch, hello! It's not all about you anymore! After a year or two of thinking about someone other than herself, suddenly, Brad Pitt or Harrison Ford comes along and decides to significantly other her. Which is also to say -- if what you really want is a baby, go get you one. Your husband will be along shortly. Motherhood has a way of weeding out the lotharios.

6. You're Not Good Enough.
Oh, I don't think that. You do. I can tell because you're not looking for a partner who is your equal. No, you want someone better than you are: better looking, better family, better job.

Here is what you need to know: You are enough right this minute. Period. Not understanding this is a major obstacle to getting married, since women who don't know their own worth make terrible wives. Why? You can fake it for a while, but ultimately you won't love your spouse any better than you love yourself. Smart men know this.

I see this at my son's artsy, progressive school. Of 183 kids, maybe six have moms who are as cute as you're trying to be. They're attractive, sure. They're just not objects. Their husbands (wisely) chose them for their character, not their cup size.

Alright, so that's the bad news. The good news is that I believe every woman who wants to can find a great partner. You're just going to need to get rid of the idea that marriage will make you happy. It won't. Once the initial high wears off, you'll just be you, except with twice as much laundry.

Because ultimately, marriage is not about getting something -- it's about giving it. Strangely, men understand this more than we do. Probably because for them marriage involves sacrificing their most treasured possession -- a free-agent penis -- and for us, it's the culmination of a princess fantasy so universal, it built Disneyland.

The bottom line is that marriage is just a long-term opportunity to practice loving someone even when they don't deserve it. Because most of the time, your messy, farting, macaroni-and-cheese eating man will not be doing what you want him to. But as you give him love anyway -- because you have made up your mind to transform yourself into a person who is practicing being kind, deep, virtuous, truthful, giving, and most of all, accepting of your own dear self -- you will find that you will experience the very thing you wanted all along:

Love.

My Closest Friend

Jeepers

I remember coming home from elementary school one day and going to the backyard and not seeing my miniature schnauzer, Jeepers, anywhere. My little brother and I searched everywhere and eventually thought he might have ran away. I called my mom at her work and she said she took him in to be put down earlier that morning. And just like that, Jeepers was dead.

Greg and I never got to say goodbye. Never got to pet him or feed him one last time. In our little tiny frames of rage, we destroyed Jeepers' doghouse with hammers. Out of what, I'm still not sure. Anger, of course, but directionless and without specific reason. Maybe reducing that little wooden house to kindling was our way of instant closure. It never worked, as we still resent her for it to this day.

But as I got the "privilege" to be there for my cat Jag during his final moments, I realize now that there is no easy way out; Whether you're there for it or not, when a loved pet dies, life fires a nail gun into your soul and leaves it there to rust until enough time has passed for you to jostle it free many years later.

My sister and Lynx

We got Jag and his sister Lynx before my sister was even born, which means Jag lived to be at least 16 years old. It was always an unsaid rule in the house that Jag was "my" cat. There was his sister Lynx, and they had kittens (Tiger, Puma and Foo), but Jag was just always mine.

Him and I were a lot alike. We liked being alone away from everyone else, but we never minded each other. I'd wake up with him pawing at my back, and when I woke up, he would lay down on the carpet in the sun coming through the window, waiting for me to join him. And I did. We'd lay in the sun on the floor, and I'd  tell him everything. Just talk. About life. I suppose this was my version of prayer; Confiding in a source your deepest fears, regrets and hopes. I knew he couldn't understand what I was saying per se, but I know that he knew I was communicating with him and only him. After all, we were the only two things in the room and he would look at me while laying on my belly, falling asleep to my heartbeat. When I was sick, he'd lay on the piano and watch over me. When I was in a bad mood, he stayed out of my way. And when I was just sad - even on days I was sad for no reason at all - he'd jump up and rub his head all around the hair on my head and purr until I sighed and just let all the bad shit in life fade away.

Away from each other, Jag and I did our own things: I did my best to go about my life with as little contact with my family as possible; Jag would sit on the roof, watching the city silently, not concerned about chasing birds or other cats. And when I got home, he'd be at my sliding glass door, waiting to come in. I'd sit down, do my homework, then watch a movie while he sat on my head.

Lynx eventually disappeared years ago the way cats do when they're too prideful to let you see them wither away. One day we just simply never saw her again. We kept the screen door ajar in hope of hearing that familiar sound of soft metal scratching and mewing, but it never did. It was sad for a few weeks, but it was a calm and underlying sadness where everyone knew the truth of Lynx, and we all accepted it quietly in our own ways as life went on.

I left my home years and years ago under, shall we say... acrimonious terms. And while living on my own and finding my own path in life while I become a man has been rewarding on many levels, one regret I always had was that I had to leave my cat, Jag, behind in hopes that my little sister would take care of him in my stead.

When I returned home years later to pick up an amp I had left in the garage, I found a box in my old front porch. In it was a figure I couldn't recognize. Just a bag of bone and fuzz barely moving. I tiled the box and heard Jag's meow, but it was weaker now. Barely audible and full of air. I could see his skeleton through his fur. As I reached out with both my arms to pull Jag in, he made that whiny groan that cats do in their throats when they're displeased with something but are incapable of doing anything about it (i.e. car rides). He was light as a feather. The heaviest thing about him was his collar. I could touch his tail, his belly, pet his back, move his paws, and where he would normally hiss or pull away, he simply just laid in my arms, now purring.

I couldn't understand. Jag was such a big cat. The biggest on the block. I've seen him take on three cats at the same time and they ran away. He turned dogs on their back if they even approached me. He jumped fences in single bounds and could get to the top of our chimney in seconds. How could such a powerful and beautiful creature be reduced to... this? So quickly?

I called my sister and asked her what happened to Jag. She said they took him to the doctor and there was something about his kidneys no longer working and he wouldn't eat. I broke the lock on the garage and opened some cat food, and sure enough, Jag was so weak he couldn't even lift his head to bother eating. He just looked at me. A few soft blinks, and then went back to sleep in his box.

I knew what was coming.

A few days later my sister called me and told me that my mom was taking Jag to the vet to put him down. I drove there as fast I could, speed limits be damned. She won't do this to me again. I parked and marched in. There was my mom and my sister with a box in her lap. Inside, Jag was standing awkwardly, half up and half crouching, in a confused state of awareness. I reached in to turn him around and he stayed in that position, like a doll. His eyes were open but he wasn't looking at anything. I squatted down to make eye contact, but even when I lined us up, he just wasn't... there.

The vet called Jag's name. I signed some papers on a clipboard. Let the pen hang off it's string. I carried the box, somehow still not comprehending the events that were happening. I was just carrying a box.

And then I saw the metal table around the corner. The sterile air and florescent lights gave everything a harsh, dull tone. The vet put rubber gloves on and gently dragged Jag out of the box. I heard his claws scratching the cardboard. A groan. Jag stumbled. Even though he couldn't physically react, somewhere in his mind I knew he wasn't liking the cold surface. The doctor asked me questions, but I was in my own world behind my sunglasses, looking at Jag, wondering what all of this meant. Just keep nodding.

The vet pulled out some clippers and shaved some of the fur from the inside of Jag's leg. More questions. More nodding in oblivious numbness. And then I saw the needle.

And in one full, entire fleeting moment of our flashbacks, it all came crashing down on me.

Jag is going to die. Right now.

The first needle went in. Jag reacted immediately. Out of nowhere he came to life and began twisting and turning with all the strength of a feather. I remember the veterinarian's command to "Hold him down," echoed in my head. So I grabbed what was left of the scruff of Jag's neck and held on.

I held on for as long as I could. At the same time, I could feel him letting go.

And Jag, for the first time in weeks, looked at me.

A tear fell onto the lens of my sunglasses, blurring my vision. But I knew what was going on. Jag looked up  - at his owner of 16 years - and suddenly, after all the petting, the movies, the talking, the hours of laying in the sun, the sneaking of food, the park, the vacations... suddenly he had to be confused as to why this giant who had loved him for so long was suddenly holding him down as he was dying. Why isn't he helping me? Jag looked up at me and only me with wide eyes, pupils constantly widening and narrowing, looking for a reason why I was doing this to him.

My teeth felt like plastic as I clenched them. I hadn't exhaled in some time. A green saucy fluid began drooling from the side of Jag's mouth.

And then...

There is no happy ending to this. No cute moral of the story. No heart-warming final thought. Regardless of the circumstances, regardless of what people may say to me, all I know is that Jag looked up at me and, in that little primal brain of his, his final thought was, "Why?"

And his green eyes closed for the last time.

My Jag.

Hope I see you soon, buddy. I'll explain when I get there.

-HKR

http://www.cracked.com/blog/5-jobs-everyone-in-world-should-have-at-some-point_p2/

The sex breakdown

False Assumptions Women Make About Men

I've wanted to write this for quite some time, but I was afraid of coming off as some sort of spokesman for angry dudes everywhere. I'm not. Frankly, I'm not a big fan of most men, and I think women have every reason not to trust us, especially when it comes to sex. After all, most guys would cut their own dick off to get laid.

So yes, ladies, you're right. When it comes to sexual interactions, men are mostly awful. But now what? You think you'll avoid all the problems that come from interacting with half the human race just because you know we're not to be trusted? Clearly, that's not enough, because everyone knows that, and yet you keep stepping in it. A better strategy would be to adjust some of your "strategies" on your search for a good, honest and reliable man.

And we can start by fixing some of those false assumptions.

Playing Hard to Get Is a Good Idea

This technique is as old as it is pointless, but before we see why, let's get the terminology right. This entry is about playing hard to get, not being hard to get. Women of the world: Please go out and be every bit as picky as you think you deserve. No one - not even an incredibly sexy older man writing on a blog - has the right to tell you who you should be dating. Standards are great, and kudos to you for having them. What I'm talking about is women who are actually in the market for a specific man. They know who they want, they got him all picked out and their strategy for landing him is simply "playing hard to get." It's a boring, useless waste of time.

Some of you disagree. "Bullshit," you say, while wearing your incredibly tight top of indifference and pretending to have no peripheral vision. "I'll play hard to get and distinguish myself!"

You.

Distinguishing yourself is the whole philosophy of playing hard to get. Instead of being like the other needy girls, you act super cool and uninterested to stand out. You know what else would distinguish you? Giving better head than everyone else.

Now, before you string me up for being crass, just hear me out. I'm proving a point (via an oral sex joke). It makes sense to want to stand out from the crowd - to do something to distinguish yourself. But why not actually do something? Be funnier, smarter, kinder, or, yes (even though it was a joke), better in bed. At least those are skills. Something tangible.

What's playing hard to get? The talent to do nothing: "Oh, I won't look at him. I won't laugh at his jokes. I won't tell him his video series is amazing."

But let's say I'm wrong. We'll pretend playing hard to get is like the most super way to get a guy ever. We'll pretend you did your trick and instead of him finding you tedious and bland, your target asked you out. (And you eventually accepted.) Just do me a favor and fast forward a little bit. Two weeks from now, what do you want your boyfriend to tell his friends about the relationship? "Oh, the way she just sat there and did nothing was amazing. I just had to have her. There she was, not talking to me too much and not making too much eye contact, and I was all, man, I would love to have a girlfriend that might not actually dig me."

Wouldn't you rather overhear him say, "I met this girl the other night and she was so funny I laughed the whole night." Or "This new girl, she gets things that no other woman gets. I can talk to her." Or lastly, wouldn't even praise for your sexual performance be more gratifying than how awesome you are at hiding your feelings and true desires?

"And then, get this: She said nothing and walked away! How hot is that?"

And there's an even bigger problem. Which guys are most susceptible to the "playing hard to get" trick? Exactly. Only the kind of guy who wants what he can't have. So even if your trick gets you a prize, then congratulations, you just won a douche bag. Your new man doesn't actually want you. How could he? You didn't even show him you. You were too busy being cool. He just wanted a toy he didn't own yet. And guess what? Once he has you, you lose your only distinguishing characteristic. But I'm sure he won't resent you for it. After all, you just went fishing with super-smart bait - the kind that only attracts assholes and disappears completely the moment they bite. Well played.

Guys Are All About "Negging"

Lately, I've been hearing a lot of women talk about "negging." Do you know about this? Supposedly it's a flirting technique where a guy insults a woman to lower her self-esteem, thereby making her more susceptible to being hit on. Some quick research tells me it's a technique championed by that d-bag "Mystery" who you might recall from the VH1 show The Pickup Artist. I didn't watch the show, and I assume you didn't either, unless you're having a smarter friend read this aloud for you while you stumble toward literacy.

I tend to think this negging phenomenon is complete bullshit. Most guys I know aren't exactly sexual Hannibal Lecters, capable of deconstructing and rebuilding a woman's psyche for sex (yours truly notwithstanding). It's hard enough for us to keep the little things straight: "Smile, don't stare at her tits, don't stare at her tits, say she's pretty, smile, don't stare at her tits, you stared at her tits, stop staring at her tits, smile..." And yet, I keep hearing about this and seeing it in Facebook statuses and Tweets, and I don't think it's because men won't stop negging. I think it's because women like the idea of negging.

You can understand why it's attractive. Now a man can't criticize a woman without being accused of wanting to have sex with her. Look, maybe some sad, misguided men are negging, but ladies, let me ask you this: Have you ever considered that perhaps some of you just suck? Honestly? I mean, I can't give you exact statistics, but there's got to be a fairly large percentage of women going on about negging who are just legitimately awful. And now they're bulletproof in their little negging sanctuaries.

Man: You white supremacist bitch. You just set fire to that black Baptist church!

Woman: ... Are you negging? You're so negging.

Man: No! I just hate you for your poor ethics and moral values.

Woman: NEEEEEEEGGGGGGGGGGINNNNNNNG.

Man: No seriously. I don't even understand how you exist. It's like the ghost of Josef Mengele raped Pol Pot's stem cells. You're just evil.

Woman: Maybe, but you'd still fuck me.

Man: ...and?

Most men want to have sex with women, but you can't disqualify an opinion just because it has a penis attached to it. Personally, if I weren't allowed to critique women I wanted to jump, I never would have made it through my 18th Century Feminist Theory class.

Mary Wollstonecraft ftw.

Being Slutty Is Empowering

I still believe it's harder to be a woman than a man, and, even today, women are legitimately oppressed in many ways. So enter feminism to address those inequities. The dictionary will tell you that feminism is a doctrine advocating social, political and all other rights of women equal to those of men. Women will tell you feminism is ... well, it depends on the decade, because like all important things, feminism is always evolving. But with all of feminism's changes, there seems to be two constants: 1) it confuses the hell out of women who don't have a strong sense of themselves, and 2) it pisses off asshole men.

I started going to college in the late '90s. That was the height of Naomi Wolf Beauty Myth feminism. My peers were women who liked Ani DiFranco and wanted to run with the wolves. The '90s were fun, but they were filled with lots and lots of awful sex. I can't tell you how many women I met whose idea of whether or not they were empowered was all tied up in how they liked to screw. And "tied up" could not be a more inappropriate phrase, because restraining a woman in bed only happened on liberal arts campuses in the '90s during an exorcism.

It saddened me, because I thought feminism was the freedom to have sex any dirty, filthy way you wanted without worrying about the psycho-sociological ramifications of being on your knees or having "property of Gladstone" written on your ass in lipstick. Personally, I never felt like any less of a man because of any particular kind of sex I was having, so why should a woman? Regardless of the sexual act, I was still a man, fully capable of driving a stick, hitting a baseball or getting into a fistfight. (Unless I was wearing that thing that did the thing to my thing, but that was just physics.) I thought women should have the same freedom and the same right to degrade and be degraded in any way that got them hot without having Naomi Wolf's babble filling their heads, ruining their orgasms.

Goes down on the first date, and swallows a ton of seamen. 

In time, however, the 21st century happened, and a new era of Sex and the City feminism entered. Suddenly, women were saying, yeah, we can be slutty, just like guys. After all, guys go out and try to get laid and brag about it, and society encourages them to do so. I'm going to do that too! Suddenly, you had college girls tweeting about blowjobs and wearing their sexuality on their sleeves, thinking that they were supposed to go out and ride the world for the sisters or they were somehow being oppressed. And though I would imagine this brand of feminism is a lot better for guys looking to get laid, it still makes me sad. It's still putting a pressure on women that shouldn't be there.

The whole premise is wrong. Yes, men are jealous of guys who get a lot of women, but women are wrong to think it's a trait that garners much respect. No one says, "We need to calm corporate unrest -- be sure to tell the shareholders how much tang our new CEO is getting." It might surprise women, but do you know what we call guys who go out and try to screw everything? Whores. Know what we call the guy who's always going on and on about all the women he's landed? An asshole. And in my experience, even guys who are legitimately good at having a bunch of promiscuous sex wouldn't make a big show of it.

It's a subtle distinction. Yes, feminism is about women having the same right as men to be irresponsible, brash and slutty, I'll agree. But being brash, irresponsible and slutty doesn't make you a feminist. It doesn't make you empowered. It just makes you as irresponsible, brash and slutty as some of the dudes we don't like. Think of it this way: It was completely unjust to deny black citizens the right to vote, but having gained that right, would a black man be empowering his race by voting for a segregationist?

Hungry and hollow

The night van Gogh let go.

These... "plans" we have, they are never truly born. They're simply evolved from other failed plans, other scarring mistakes, other lessons that are still - and quite stubbornly - unlearned. So many people worry about the script and where they fit in it they become obsessed with how their movie is going to end. And that's fine. But a few very rare people have already seen the end of our movie. And that's okay with us. Because that some of us live in trilogies. Because for us, the end of the movie is really the beginning of the saga. Where the second part gets even darker. And the third one amplifies the triumph.

So the real wonderment is not what your ending is; It's asking yourself what you're going to do when all of your plans culminate in to one, colossal, life-altering proposition when its offered to you while fate's back is turned. Will you shrink into the corner of your life? Or will you take it and make as much noise as possible?

Well, the back way is always quieter.

But it's an exit all the same.

-HKR

There's a weird bird in all of us.

Setting: Spring, 2004, my house. My 10-year old sister calls my name from the kitchen while I'm in my room cleaning my desk.

[from far away, a little girls' voice] "Neeeeeeeeeiiil!"

What!?

"Come here!!!!"

[I walk to the kitchen and over to the bay windows] What is it, Lindsey.

"Lookit. Those two birds are fighting."

Where?

"Right there. By the pool, on the slide."

...

"Why are they fighting like that?"

*blinks* Well...

[She looks up at me, awaiting an answer]

Well those doves are fighting in that particular way because they like each other.

[twists face] "Because they like each other!?"

Eeyeah. It's a good fight.

"They've been fighting forever just now. What happens when one wins?"

Well, they both kind of...win in that fight.

[makes a face] "Birds are weird."

Movie posters and why they bug me

A silhouette in front of the ocean

Are you getting the idea of how poignant their movie is? Would another big floating head above the ocean convince you? Get ready for a sappy drama. Someone's going to die, and the director is going to try their hardest to force you to cry. This is... entertainment?

A loner viewed from behind, 

accompanied only by their weapon of choice

The person is always alone, and, if they're wearing a hat, there's a deadly weapon taking a prominent place in the movie and the poster. Intended to imbue the person with mystery and power, it also implies that they may be our defender as we stand behind them and let them do their thing. More likely, though, we're in for a movie with an improbably skilled or lucky hero who isn't governed by the same laws of physics as the rest of us. The poster may end up eliciting more emotion from you than the movie itself. Except for The Dark Knight. That movie was the bomb.

Back to back, viewed from the side

This is the movie poster equivalent of the morning radio show hosted by a coed team of unfunny, bland dolts affectedly laughing at the stale, "safe" jokes they bought off prepburger. This poster is shorthand for, "These two are sassy and incorrigible! Exclamation points! Stay tuned for the credits to hear Natasha Bedingfield's "Feel The Rain On Your Skin"! You like that, right?"

And if you do like that, congratulations. You're the reason we can't have nice things.

The between-the-legs shot

These almost always feature a very young, very skinny, bare-legged girl (who may or may not be in the movie), and there will be a man pictured in between her legs. Subtle.

Don't expect any more creativity from the script than is evidenced by this very old poster cliche. Also, there's almost no chance you'll be seeing that girl naked, so this poster achieves the double whammy of skeeving out half the audience while disappointing the other half.

The eyes have it

Often in the horror genre and always a movie trying to bill itself as more deep and artistic than it really is. Yes, I'm looking at you, Avatar.

Annoying Types of Drivers

People Who Are Scared To Death Of Concrete Barriers

Sometimes, when freeway planners don't have a lot of faith in the driving skills of ordinary citizens (which is completely reasonable), they put up concrete barriers to keep drunk and stupid people from driving into oncoming traffic or off a cliff.

And that's fine; Knowing your limitations is a good thing, as anyone who has watches American Idol can tell you. But the sensible thing to do would be to get out of the scary lane, instead of constantly hitting your brakes in terror and veering so far to the right that your car has half changed lanes anyway.

Why do these people do this? Apparently it's really important for them to stay in the "fast lane" despite their pants-shitting fear of the barrier causing them to slow down so much they would probably be going faster in the next lane to the right anyway. Or maybe they're just too scared to think of what to do.

Listen, barrier-phobic people, it's okay to move over. The concrete barrier can't smell fear. It's not going to chase you.

People Who Think Bicycles Are Massive Vehicles

The literal mirror image of those people are people who are terrified of bicyclists. Whenever they come across a single bicyclist riding on the right side of the road, they give the bike the berth that most people would normally give a bus, or in some cases, a Galaxy-class starship Enterprise.

And let me just say that bicyclists do really appreciate the fact that you care about not running them over. And that's very sweet. But bikes are as wide as... people. When there's a bike lane, in particular, the bike lane is plenty big enough to contain the bike or three, and the car lane is just fine to fit your car, so all you have to do is stay in that car lane, as opposed to veering into oncoming traffic or slowing down and driving behind the bike the whole way home.

I know sometimes there's no bike lane and the road is narrow, and sometimes there's inconsiderate bicyclists that don't stay to the right, but throwing out those cases, there's plenty of times the bike is safely contained in a big fat shoulder or bike lane, and all this driver can see is apparently some kind of whale rolling sideways down the side of the road.

People Who Pass You For No Actual Advantage

There's a lot of people out there who will be very rude or dangerous about passing you, we all know about that, but in most cases they're gaining something, at least according to their priorities. They're passing you to get into an open lane where they can go ahead and keep driving 120 mph, so that they can die faster.

But what if there's clearly already a red light 200 yards in front of you? Why would someone pass you just to get to the red light faster? Do they enjoy waiting at red lights? Apparently so, because this happens way more than it should.

Or if there's a slow car, of course people want to pass. But say you're going slowly only because the car in front of you is going slowly. You would pass that sleepy old man but there's no room to pass in the other lane. Then Mr. Speed Demon comes up behind you and starts tailgating you like it's your fault you're going so slow.

Apparently convinced it would be smooth sailing if he could just get around you, he zips around you and settles in neatly right behind the actual slow car. What the fuck, buddy? What did that gain you except spending some extra gas and giving someone who now hates you a good chance to memorize your license plate?

That's right, pal. You better watch it because if I see you again on the road, I am going to quietly not think very highly of you.

People Who Let EVERYBODY In

A lot of times we bemoan the lack of civility on our roads, but sometimes an overdose of civility can be an equally annoying pain in the ass. When you merge onto a freeway or something, you are supposed to merge like a zipper, one car from either side, alternating.

Sometimes one soft-hearted driver will let one car in, and then, oh no! There's another car there. Well how did you get there, little fella? You can come in too! Oh, wait, there's another car behind him! Imagine that! Well, you get yourself in there too. After a while, you can actually see it dawn on them after a while that the stream of cars merging in is actually infinite, and after a couple moments pussyfooting forward hesitantly as they fit these new observations into their worldview, they will drift shamefully forward and free up traffic.

A similar problem can be seen at stop signs, where some people completely ignore the actual, universal laws about who gets to go first and treat it like some kind of exercise in "after you" chivalry. Instead of making things faster, this actually confuses the other person and often sends them into a stop sign standoff, as shown below:

This repeats until both cars run into each other.

People Who Camp Parking Spots

These people have apparently reserved a parking space with a credit card somehow, because they stubbornly camp out spaces where the occupants obviously aren't going to be leaving in the next couple of minutes, as they pack their month's worth of Costco groceries away or disassemble their extremely complex baby-carrying apparatus and pack it in the car.

The worst thing is if they pre-position themselves in the middle of the aisle, at an angle, to most easily turn into the parking space, oblivious to the fact this blocks traffic in both directions. "Fuck this shit," you will probably think, "I'm backing out." But then when you look behind you, a line of other drivers drawn into this horrible nightmare has appeared, completely blocking you in.

And then if you turn to the inconsiderate nexus of this whole clusterfuck, sitting there with their blinker on, and express some kind of impatience, they'll just turn to you with a, "I know! What can I do?" kind of look and shrug at the people who aren't leaving, like this is their responsibility. Yeah, sure, it's not the fault of the dumbfuck sitting in the middle of the aisle, turned 45 degrees with his blinker on, because that space is obviously his destiny. Looking for another space could completely alter the course of history and destroy life as we know it.

Or maybe he would just have to walk 15 more seconds to get to the store entrance. Either way the consequences are just unthinkable.

People Who hang Out In Your Blind Spot

If you are a responsible driver, you know there are "blind spots" around your car that you can't see using your mirrors, and that it's bad for another vehicle to be in them, at least if you consider it bad to be completely unaware of a one ton machine going 70 mph right next to your car.

Sometimes someone drifts into your blind spot, which is not a problem. You just speed up or slow down to get them out of it. But some drivers, for some inexplicable reason, insist on staying in your blind spot. You speed up, they speed up. You slow down, they slow down. What the hell is going on here?

Speeding up might be explained by typical chest-thumping driver competitiveness, but slowing down? That's just weird. One possible explanation is that they're just not paying attention and unconsciously tend to match speed with the nearest car. For those who prefer more paranoid explanations, it could be one of them crooks who stages accidents for the insurance money.

How to tell which is which? I suggest pointing a gun at the other driver. If they react to it, they were clearly paying attention to you and therefore must be an insurance crook.

Slow Drivers In Denial

Most slow drivers are pretty oblivious, but a few of them are in active, aggressive denial. If you should pass them, as you normally would to a slow driver, they suddenly wake up, become incensed, and speed up, as if to say, "Hey! I'm not a slow driver! Who says I am!" They may have just drifted off for a bit, they seem to be saying, but how dare you judge them by that speed they were going. That's not their real speed. They're really a fast driver, you just caught them at a bad moment.

Of course, 30 seconds later, after you reluctantly settle back in behind them, they are back to crawling along like a tortoise. And do you dare pass them again? They are clearly fucking sensitive about this. You don't want to start a road rage thing here. Hell, they might be one of those crazy people that keeps a gun in their car.

People Who Time It Just Right So You Miss the Green Light

 

Just fuck you.

-HKR

Anam cara

Right now. You're sitting down. And perhaps a few of you are standing up. You have your eyes looking at a piece of glass that emits light and images for your to process and understand.

a

b

c

You just read three letters. And you didn't even really read them; you just saw them and recognized them and continued down to the next mass of words. And that's just you.

Somewhere, outside of your window, on the other side of your door, under the same sky you look up into, someone, right now, this very second you read this bolded word, two people are having the best and wildest sex of their life. Someone is tied up to two bed posts and sweating and breathing and moaning in time with someone whose muscles are tightening and clenching every second. Right now. This second. Promise.

Somewhere in the world right now, someone right now is having the best day of their life. A woman just obtained a large sum of money and got a promotion and their kids won an award while their husband bought them a new car.

Right now, a boy is coming home from falling in love with a girl and is smiling just thinking about her. He can't forget her scent. He will not do his homework tonight, and for the first time in his life he's worrying about what he's going go to wear tomorrow. That could be happening on the other side of your block right now.

Right now someone is starting a diet. And someone else is giving theirs up.

This exact moment that you're sitting safe in your chair at home with your music on, somewhere in the world there's a girl getting raped by a man she doesn't know. And she will probably be killed in about ten minutes. Her body will be stashed away by some demented means and she won't be found for some time. This could be happening in India. This could be happening in Africa. This could be happening across your street. My street.

Somewhere at this very moment that I made you aware of your blinking, two kids are fighting and bleeding. Somewhere else a couple is laying in a park on a blanket smiling, secretly thinking about marriage but not telling the other. A band is breaking up and yelling at the lead singer. Elsewhere, a man is at a table with a pen and paper in hand, writing three verses, a chorus and a bridge to a song that you will hear on the radio and be singing in a few months.

A baby was just born. A mother is smiling through tears from nine months pain and unfathomable agony and wouldn't trade any of it for the world. A baby has just died. A teenage girl will be walking out of a clinic with her head down in about half an hour and will never forget this moment - the same moment that you read my blog- for the rest of her life.

It's a rookie's first time flying a plane. Someone just got fired. Another is retiring. Millions of people are praying this instant. A homeless man needs money. A woman needs her hair to come out right. A girl wants a pair of shoes to be one sale. A man would like nothing more than to have the woman he met last night call. And he's waiting by his phone right now.


By the time you've finished reading this entry...

...the s/m couple just had the best orgasm they've ever had. And one of them is smoking a cigarette.

...the married couple is getting ready to go out somewhere expensive. But the husband has already reserved a table as a surprise.

...the boy is still smiling.

...that girl is dead right now. The man is standing up, suddenly frightened at himself and what he's done. In a few minutes, pure panic will set in. In a few weeks, he will be behind bars and sentenced to life in prison.

...the baby is a boy. The girl aborted a girl.

And you sat here and read words. What will go on unnoticed around you after you're done reading this?

Someone could be writing writing about you right now.

Unite.

"I'm sorry. But I don't want to be an emperor; that's not my business. I don't want to rule or conquer anyone. I should like to help everyone if possible, Jew, gentile, black man, white. We all want to help one another, human beings are like that.

"We all want to live by each other’s happiness, not by each other’s misery. We don’t want to hate and despise one another. In this world there is room for everyone and the earth is rich and can provide for everyone. The way of life can be free and beautiful.

"But we have lost the way. Greed has poisoned men's souls – has barricaded the world with hate; has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed.

"We have developed speed but we have shut ourselves in; machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical, our cleverness hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little: 

"More than machinery we need humanity; More than cleverness we need kindness and gentleness. Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost.

"The airplane and the radio have brought us closer together. The very nature of these inventions cries out for the goodness in men, cries out for universal brotherhood for the unity of us all. Even now my voice is reaching millions throughout the world, millions of despairing men, women and little children, victims of a system that makes men torture and imprison innocent people. To those who can hear me I say “Do not despair”.

"The misery that is now upon us is but the passing of greed, the bitterness of men who fear the way of human progress: the hate of men will pass and dictators die and the power they took from the people, will return to the people and so long as men die, liberty will never perish.

"Soldiers – don’t give yourselves to brutes, men who despise you and enslave you – who regiment your lives, tell you what to do, what to think and what to feel, who drill you, diet you, treat you as cattle, use you as cannon fodder. Don’t give yourselves to these unnatural men, machine men, with machine minds and machine hearts! You are not machines. You are not cattle! You are men! You have the love of humanity in your hearts. You don’t hate – only the unloved hate. Only the unloved and the unnatural. Soldiers – don’t fight for slavery, fight for liberty!

"In the seventeenth chapter of Saint Luke it is written ”....the kingdom of God is within man” – not one man, nor a group of men – but in all men – in you, the people.

"You the people have the power, the power to create machines, the power to create happiness. You the people have the power to make life free and beautiful, to make this life a wonderful adventure. Then in the name of democracy let’s use that power – let us all unite. Let us fight for a new world, a decent world that will give men a chance to work, that will give you the future and old age and security. By the promise of these things, brutes have risen to power, but they lie. They do not fulfill their promise, they never will. Dictators free themselves but they enslave the people. Now let us fight to fulfill that promise. Let us fight to free the world, to do away with national barriers, do away with greed, with hate and intolerance. Let us fight for a world of reason, a world where science and progress will lead to all men’s happiness.

"Soldiers – in the name of democracy, let us all unite!”