The Daily Show vs Fox News. The slippery slope of choosing one over the other

I made an alarming observation today.  It's something that's been mulling around in the back of my mind since Obama's campaign really ramped up in '08.  We've been seeing an "us versus them" division between Americans for most of our history, but over the past few years it has really come to a head.  Republicans are penny pinching, war-mongering, racist religious zealots OR Democrats are weak-wristed, financially irresponsible, indecisive heathens.  To be an American who is at all involved in political discourse, you are really expected to choose one of the above statements and violently defend it, labeling anyone on the other side as ignorant, selfish and, frankly, downright evil.

Nowhere do I see this division more plainly than in the public rivalry of Fox News vs The Daily Show.  Now there's a big difference between the two.  The Daily Show is meant to be a comedic and sarcastic look at the world around us.  However many young "liberal" Americans takes their news from The Daily Show and enjoy seeing people like Glen Beck and Sean Hannity torn a new one by John Stewart's attentive wit while simultaneously learning about the issues of the day.

One thing Fox News is unapologetically guilty of is providing a soapbox for angry Republicans to voice their opposition to Obama and the Democrats, not to mention the "naive" young Americans who support Obama.  They are a news network without objectivity.  They have an opinion and their viewers like it that way.  They have a position; and though they labeled themselves fair and balanced, they really make very little attempt at backing those labels up, unless you consider Glenn Beck taking thirty minutes to angrily talk about how much he hates the show Glee "fair" and "balanced".

Both sides wear their opinions with pride.  Each believes that the other is fundamentally wrong, and that the American people are wise enough to know that their side is the correct one.  How can I compare a news network to a comedy show?  Because Fox News simply has no direct opposite.  Regardless of what some people mystifyingly read into CNN or MSNBC, there is no dedicated "Democrat" news network.  Mostly because Democratic talking heads (Al Franken, James Carville, etc) are simply not as ratings worthy (dare I say charismatic?) and outspoken as their Republican counterparts.  There's not a public demand for a 24 hour Democrat channel.  You know why?

Because the liberal political base in America is largely young.  The liberal American base doesn't park themselves in front of CNN, talk radio, or any other news outlet to hear their opinions validated.  No, they turn on Comedy Central, or, more realistically these days, they views clips online of...here we are now...The Daily Show.  If John Stewart and Steven Colbert had a news network, it might be a different story, but being comedians, they do not.

Now I am an adamant centrist.  I'm a fiscal conservative and social liberal.  And since I'm honest with myself, that often puts me at odds with both sides in any given debate; simply because the two are not allowed to meet in the middle under our current political climate.  Agreeing with a Democrat alienates a Republican's "Joe everyman" fan-base.  Agreeing with a Republican alienates a Democrat's "young, hip, evironmentally conscious" fan-base.  Therefore, never the twain shall meet and never shall we get any damn thing done in Congress until one of the two sides completely takes over the other.

Centrist though I am, I'm also young.  I am environmentally aware and socially accepting and unconcerned with the apparent limitations of religion.  Oh, and I also spend a lot of time online.  That puts me right in the target market for The Daily Show.  So yes, I do watch The Daily Show more than Fox News.  I also listen to conservative radio, but that's besides the point.

The point is, Daily Show viewers, in my observations, seem to feel that they are above and beyond that division in American politics.  It's a comedy show, right?  And yet these viewers feel certain ways and have certain opinions just as strongly as the average Fox News viewer.  We laugh along at John Stewart and Steven Colbert on the Colbert Report, but what's more than that, while we're laughing, we're also saying, "that's funny because that's exactly how I feel!".

That's exactly how I feel.  It's the same sentiment as a Fox News viewer, a notion the average Daily Show viewer would find abhorrent.  You can't compare a young, socially informed, educated person to an ignorant, religiously blinded, socially intolerant person, can you?

The truth is, with either show, we often don't even think about the issues at hand until either John Stewart or Bill O'Reily bring them up.  At which point we say to ourselves, "Wow.  He's convincing and he has similar views as me.  Therefore I feel that way too!", completely ignoring the fact that the most worry we had on our plate before listening to this person was whether or not to order pizza or chinese that night.  We believe people that tell us things when they tell them to us in a convincing, entertaining manner.  And both sides are guilty of it.

The worst thing a person can do is allow social issues and politics to be spoon-fed to them, whether Republican or Democrat.  Your opinions of those issues should be formed from your experience of the world around you.  By simply choosing to define your views based on the loudest voice in the room (whether it be Bill O'Reily or your minister at church) or the prettiest face on the television (whether it be John Stewart or Johnny Depp), you're doing yourself a great disservice.  You want to worry about more than what to have for dinner at night, don't you?  You want to change the world.  Deep down in your core, whether you admit it to yourself or not, everybody does.

Moral of this particular story is, always be aware of what you're feeling and why you're feeling it.  When you agree with something on The Daily Show, don't just laugh, say he's right, and go back to playing World of Warcraft.  Think about why you formed that opinion.  Think about what it means to you and what you mean to do about it.  To the conservatives, do the same when you watch Bill O'Reily or Sean Hannity.  Think about what the man has just said.  Think about whether or not your life experience conforms to his opinion.  Think about whether or not you want the world to be painted in the same colors O'Reily or Hannity does.

Never, ever believe that you have to choose one over the other, regardless of your opinions.  A wise individual listens equally to all sides of an argument before deciding on which side he or she lies.  Be a wise individual.  Don't be a drone of the right or a sheep of the left.  Be yourself.  Believe what you believe.  And most importantly of all, know why you believe it.

Quit Playing Games With My Heart

*From my blog over at OkCupid, a dating site I've only rarely used for actual dating*

There's a phrase I keep coming across over and over again on this site, and really on every dating site I've explored over the past decade. That phrase is, "I don't want a man who plays games" or some variation thereof. Other versions include, "I don't play games, so keep on walking if you do," or, "Guys that only play games are a huge turnoff!"

First of all, I'm picturing a man playing Monopoly while a single tear streams down his cheek after he reads your profile. He probably looks like that creepy guy from The Lord of the Rings, but still...you just broke his heart.

What I'm wondering is, do you feel that you're actually eliminating a subset of the male population by adding this disclaimer? Are there men who see this and say, "Man, I play games. Better not contact this chick"?

Any bad guy will always believe he's a good guy. Any douchebag will believe he's a knight in shining armor. What purpose does it serve to warn away people who will never believe they are the ones being warned away? Said douchebag will only say to himself, "Oh this chick has been burned by some sleazy dudes before, huh? Other guys are such assholes. Now let's see if she'll meet me for a booty call in my dorm room next Friday."

Now I do see how this can be a way to exclude yourself from girls who are into random hookups. Maybe that's what you mean by "playing games". Fair enough I guess. But if you're really just trying to say that you want a serious relationship and nothing less than that, why not just say so?

So please, those of you that have used the phrase or are currently warning away players of games, tell me why you think it's an important thing to point out. I'd love some insight. Maybe you just suck at Monopoly.

Oh, and while I'm at it, stop making duck faces. There's a reason it's not called "attractive woman face".

Short Story: Heat Vision

Heat Vision

A story by Rob White

Jackie’s been my crush since first grade. She lived across the street from me and we played in the creek almost every day. She was a tom boy once, which is kind of contrary to the prima donna, aspiring pop musician object of every boy’s desires and every girl’s jealousy she eventually became.

That makes it hurt that much more when she blasts me with her laser eyes above the school parking lot. I feel the heat singe my impenetrable skin as I fall a good fifty feet to the ground, smacking into Johnny Brooks’ nice new truck. I heard his dad gave it to him. He’s going to be pissed.

Bullets can’t hurt me. Steel can’t cut me. But heat still hurts. I’m still trying to figure out what all of my weaknesses are, but as I look up out of the crater that was Jonny’s truck, I know for sure what one of them is.

God she’s beautiful.

“Zack, get your skinny ass out of there and fight me you loser!” Jackie yells at me, still hovering fifty feet in the air, where we were slugging it out a moment before.

Jackie got super powers about a week after I did. It started with flying and picking up heavy things, like me. Then she discovered the heat vision. I don’t have that one.

I stand up, feeling my fists get hot. It isn’t from Jackie’s heat vision though. No…this is one of mine.

Jackie screams as two blazing fireballs erupt from my hands one after the other, rocketing towards her. She zips to her right a moment before the two of them explode. I see her dark brown hair and her pink skirt ripple in the heat wave.

“You asshole! I just got my hair done!”

I’m kind of relieved I didn’t hit her. She’s too pretty to blow up, and I’m kind of still madly in love with her. Even if she is a super villain.

I feel myself hurtling through the air towards her, taking advantage of her distraction to hopefully catch her off-guard and put a quick end to the fight.

It is sort of hard to quickly end a fight between two near-invulnerable super beings though, teenagers or not. Jackie sees me and hits me head on with a right cross to the jaw. If I had been a normal kid like I was two weeks ago, my teeth would be raining on the pavement below, but I suppose I wouldn’t be up here if I were a normal kid, would I?

“Jackie, stop it! You know you can’t win this!” I yell at her, shaking off her attack. I grab hold of her arms and we wrestle there, in mid-air above a high school that isn’t really a high school anymore.

“As if!” Jackie scoffs, “You couldn’t beat me at Mario Brothers when we were kids. You couldn’t beat me at go karts. And you can’t beat me now!”

I feel her knee digging into my stomach. I could take a wrecking ball to the ribs and not feel too much pain, but Jackie herself was now worse than a wrecking ball. I’m discovering quickly that there’s nothing worse than a teenage girl with super-strength.

“Ow!” I scream, letting go of her right arm. She grabs my hair and yanks it to the right. Now that still hurts, not matter how strong I am.

“God, Jackie, what are you, twelve? Let go of my hair!” I yell.

“You let go of my arm!” she replies.

Neither one of us realize we’re drifting into a parking light until it’s too late. I hear it crumple beneath our struggle, crashing to the ground below and probably taking out three or four more cars.

I’m only fourteen. A freshman. I can’t drive yet. Jackie’s sixteen and drives her dad’s convertible. Her parents always gave her everything she wanted. Probably part of the reason she turned out to be a super villain.

Hitting the lamp is enough to distract us both long enough to let one another go. We hover there, staring at each other for a long while, waiting to see who moves next. More heat vision? Fireballs? Jackie’s lighting kick? My super speed?

Instead, what comes next is a surprise to both of us.

“Why don’t you talk to me anymore?” I hear myself ask her.

Jackie’s face scrunches up in confusion. She makes a voice in the back of her throat like she’s both annoyed and taken aback.

“What the hell? It’s not like you talk to me either,” she retorts.

“Come on. You haven’t sat with me at the lunch table since sixth grade. You don’t even look at me in the hall anymore. If this hadn’t happened, you still wouldn’t even be acknowledging me,” I say. You know what? Yeah, maybe it is time for some of this stuff to come out, I think to myself. Before one of us gets thrown into the sun or smashed into the Earth’s crust or blown to smithereens.

“Oh shut up. If you weren’t such a nerd-ass, maybe the popular kids would talk to you,” she says.

“I’m not talking about the popular kids, Jackie. I’m talking about you,” I say, feeling that old familiar pain in my gut. The pain of being left behind.

I see what looks like anger and confusion cross her face. Then she’s rocketing towards me again, fists extended.

She hits me full-on, but as I take the blow I wrap my arms around her and fly us both to the ground. Her struggle makes us pull up just enough to skid off the pavement. My pants leg rips half-way off. I think she loses one of her shoes. And then she pushes me away from her and we’re standing there, facing each other again.

“Jackie, I didn’t become a nerd-ass. I’m the same kid I always was,” I say. Her heat vision flares and I dodge to the left just in time, hearing it sear into the metal door to D Hall.

“Bull crap,” she yells, her eyes still red from the blast, “None of the kids sit with you because you turned into a geeky kid that plays video games and reads Lord of the Rings instead of going to keg parties and wearing clothes that don’t look like your mom bought them at K-Mart!”

“You used to read Lord of the Rings too!” I scream at the top of my lungs. I’m angry now. I throw another fireball at her so fast she doesn’t have time to react. It explodes in front of her, taking out part of the sidewalk. She falls backwards. I can smell her clothes burning.

“Jackie!” I yell in alarm, suddenly afraid I’ve blown her up. I run over to her. I rip off the cape I made out of a bed-sheet and toss it over her to put out the flames. I then get to my knees and put my arms around her, not knowing how that would help, but wanting to do it anyway.

“I’m immune to fire, you idiot,” I hear her say before she shoves me off.

I take a step back. Her hair’s a bit singed, but she looks none the worse for wear. She keeps my cape wrapped around her. Looks like her clothes weren’t so invulnerable. I feel myself blush. Among other things.

She doesn’t attack again. She just looks at me like she’s trying to make up her mind about something.

“You really think it’s my fault we don’t talk anymore?” she said, the fight gone from her voice.

I lower my guard.

“Yeah. I do. You say that I changed. That I became a dork. But I was always a dork, Jackie. You were too once. We watched cartoons together and ran around in the woods pretending to be elves. Your dad took us to see Labyrinth three times because I wanted to be The Goblin King and you wanted to be Sarah. We did everything together. You changed,” I say, feeling the accusation rise back to the surface. Years of anger and betrayal welling up. No super strength could express how I felt. No fireballs or heat vision. Only words.

“When you went to middle school before I did, you started talking to the big kids, the seventh graders. They all liked football and Brittany Spears and drinking. It was like I was bugging you when I talked about magic and adventures. The things we used to love. And eventually…you just stopped talking to me altogether.”

Jackie looks stricken. Her eyes are back to their normal blue now. The blue eyes I remember staring at the sky with and talking about which clouds looked like dinosaurs.

“Zack,” she says softly, “We all grew up. The people in middle school…they didn’t like those things. They showed me different music and different clothes and…they let me be cool, like them.”

“And I wasn’t cool,” I observe aloud.

“No,” she says, shaking her head, “No you were still…the same old Zack.”

So I was right. I was right all along. She didn’t want me anymore because she had changed…grown up…and I hadn’t.

I feel myself start to cry. I put my head down and clench my fists. Superheroes don’t cry. They fight evil. They stop alien invasions. They save the world. They don’t cry.

“Zack….” I hear her say. Her voice is almost apologetic.

“Don’t…” I say, raising a hand and stopping her, “Don’t. You can shoot at me and beat me up. You can throw me into a bus or a train or whatever. But you can’t pity me. I won’t let you.”

She just looks at me.

You know what? Screw it.

“I loved you, Jackie. Yeah it was little kid love, but it was real. We were going to grow up and sail to some island and be king and queen together and I was going to protect you forever. That’s what I wanted. That’s all I wanted. And when you left me, it was like….”

Crap, there are the tears again.

“It was like losing a part of myself,” I said, refusing to look at her. Staring at the broken sidewalk beneath me.

“Yeah I’m a dork. Yeah, nobody likes me. But you know what? I like me. I like who I am and I’m not going to change for a group of jocks and bimbos who at the end of the day don’t give a damn about me at all. You didn’t have to change to be cool, Jackie. You were always cool to me. You were perfect.”

When I feel her hand on my chin, I expect another punch across the school yard. I expect to be hurled into the trailers or cooked by her heat vision. Instead, she lifts my chin up with her fingers…and kisses me.

She wraps my cape around the both of us and holds me there in the shattered entryway of Jackson County High School. I hold her back, but I’m only half aware of it. All I want to feel right now are her lips on mine, something I haven’t felt since I stole a kiss from her behind my grandma’s shed when she was twelve.

When it’s over, she lays her forehead on mine. She has to lean down a bit to do it because she is two years older and still a bit taller than me.

“You better not cop a feel, dorkwad,” she says.

I laugh and look up at her. Her blue eyes are staring into mine. She could melt my brain right out of my head at that range and I wouldn’t care.

“So I’m still a dork, huh?” I say.

She smiles, “Yeah well…maybe you can be my dork.”

I grin so wide I feel like my head might fall into two pieces. I hold her for a few more moments, then realize that I still have a purpose here. Teenager in love or not…I’m still a superhero.

“Are you still going to try to stop me?” I ask, my grin fading.

She looks behind us at the school, the metal door half-way melted. She thinks for a moment, and then sighs.

“No. My friends are in there too. Principal Jenkins is powerful though, Zack. He’s powerful enough to imprison a school full of super-kids. I’m done working for him. I’m not going to be a pawn for some balding, middle-aged freak with super powers.”

“Come with me,” I say. “Let’s stop him together.”

She shakes her head. “No,” now it’s her who looks at the ground, “You’re the super hero. I’m just the school bitch,”

Now it’s my turn to life her chin up. I kiss her forcefully, holding her tight. I feel her go a little weak at the knees. Now, I think to myself, this is what it’s really like to feel powerful.

“You’re not a bitch,” I say after I stop kissing her, “You’re my best friend.”

Now I see her eyes tear up a bit. I back away, prepared to do what I came here to do.

“When I get out of there, you, me and the rest of the kids have work to do. Whatever happened to us probably didn’t just happen here. There’s more than one Principal Jenkins. I’m sure of it.”

She nods, filled with resolve. “And more than one girl like me too caught up in herself to do the right thing. You’re right Zack. We have a lot of work to do.”

Her eyes begin to glow again. I’m startled for a moment as I see the heat vision erupt from them once more. It shoots behind me though, melting the rest of the way through the door, clearing the way for me into the school turned super-prison our megalomaniacal ex-principal had established.

I nod, and turn towards the school.

“And when we’re done,” she says behind me, “Maybe that island?”

I turn to look at her, the grin back on my face. She’s grinning too.

“You better come back to me, hero,” she says.

I tip her a corny salute, and then fly into the school like an angry rocket.

“Count on it,” I say, ready to take on the world.

Heat Vision

Copyright Rob White 2011

Short Story: Crushed

A little ditty I came up with on a car ride home. What would go through the mind of a very unlikable young man with a god complex if he were trapped under the rubble of his apartment building, facing certain death? Read on to find out: Warning! Very NSFW language ahead.

Crushed

By Rob White

Your whole life is ahead of you.

That’s what I’ve said, every day. When I woke up, the possibilities were endless, and when I went to bed, those possibilities were postponed until that following morning, when I would wake up and feel again that the world was my oyster. I could do it all, when I felt like it. I could change the world, when I got around to it. I could be the next John Lennon or Mahatma Gandhi or Jesus Christ when I was ready to. I just had a few things I wanted to do first. A few movies I wanted to watch and girls I wanted to fuck. When I was done with that…woe be to those that stood in the way of my potential.

I still believe that tomorrow is another day, but goddamn if I know how I’m going to get there, I think to myself as I shift my shattered elbow an inch to the right, away from the drip drip dripping of some busted pipe and the steady rain of brick-dust I feel upon the one finger that still has feeling.

Truth is, I’m not even sure the other fingers are still there. They may be there, but ground to fleshy paste, or they may be laying somewhere under what used to be my bed, next to the box of porno mags I hid from my mom before she died. Heh. Forgot those were there until now.

Guy like me doesn’t have to whack off. A guy like me gets laid all the time. All I have to do is pick up my guitar, walk down to the coffee shop, play a few chords, and watch that intellectual college pussy fly towards me like motherfucking moths to a bug zapper.

Guess I might have to learn to play right handed again. Nah. Docs will fix me up. This is nothing. Coulda dropped a damn shopping mall on me. I got a destiny. Can’t keep me down.

I feel something wet on my jeans. Hope I didn’t piss myself.

God, where the hell are those assholes? I heard the sirens about an hour ago, but they sure are taking their sweet time getting to me. When they get here, I might have to stick my foot up their asses.

Heh. What a site that would be on the 11 o’clock news. Some chiseled fireman pulling a sexy young artist out of a pile of rubble only to get his ass kicked by him. You know I’d be famous after that. I’d kick his ass, and then pick up my guitar, dust it off and then stroll off into the night like Bruce fucking Willis. I’d be getting calls from agents by morning.

Where the hell is my guitar? That thing better not be damaged. Yeah it’s insured, but that thing has gotten me a lot of pussy in my day. My good luck charm. Or good fuck charm, I should say. I think it was over by the wall next to the window. Hell if I know. I came home drunk as hell last night. Probably still be passed out if this goddamn building hadn’t fallen on top of me.

Heh. I really must have brought down the house last night.

I hear myself laugh out loud. The sound is surprisingly scary. First of all, the sound didn’t echo or reverberate really. It just kind of landed back on my face like a lame bird. Guess that’s to be expected when my ceiling and Mrs. Olroney’s floor are hanging two or three inches from my face. Something else though. The laugh sounded kind of wet.

I turn my head to the right and spit. I can’t see it too well, but it sure tastes like blood. Shit. And…my tooth is missing. My goddamn front tooth is missing!

I scream in anger, the sound of it falling impotently back down in my face again. How the hell am I going to get laid with only one front tooth? I roll my tongue over the rest of my mouth, tasting the blood on my gums.

My gums. Fuck. I have three more teeth missing. Two in the bottom back and the incisor next to my missing front tooth.

I scream again and pound my right fist on the floor. I can’t see my right fist. My arm past my bicep is covered by something that looks like a slab of sheetrock, but at least I can feel it. Wherever the rest of that arm is, it has mobility. That’s something at least.

No teeth. Great. Yeah my guitar’s insured, but I’m not. What the hell would I need insurance for? I was born to be beautiful. God had to drop a building on me to fuck that up.

I chuckle a little again. Oh well. I’ll just have to borrow some money from Pam. I hate that bitch, but she worships me and can’t stay off my cock, so I know she’ll help me out. Fix me up. Hell, I knocked her up twice and talked her into getting an abortion both times. I can make that bitch do anything.

Well…there goes my plan of making a graceful exit out of this shit pile. Or if I do, I’ll have to keep my mouth shut. That might work. Be the strong silent type. I can still kick the fireman’s ass.

Left hand smashed to shit. Mouth full of blood. Probably swallowed half my teeth. What else is fucked up?

All right, head to toe time. Right arm is pinned at the bicep, but otherwise seems ok. Left arm is free but I can only feel part of my hand. Rest of it seems pretty mangled. I can turn my head ok and lift it the inch or two between me and the sheet of debris above me. I can feel my legs, but something’s lying on top of them. Can’t lift my head enough to look down and see very well. My pants are still wet. Warm, like piss. Doesn’t smell like piss though.

I wiggle my hips. I hear the scream erupt from my lips before I even realize what’s going on. My right side, near my kidney is pinned in place, and damn if that didn’t hurt trying to move it.

I try again to look down. It’s dark down there but I can see some shapes out of the bottom corners of my eyes. Something big and dark on top of my legs, and something long and skinny sticking out of my side, half way between my rib cage and my hip bone.

Shit. Shit shit shit!

I can smell it now. Blood. It’s blood all over my pants.

So Pam’s going to have to pay to fix more than just my teeth. Plus I might not walk out of here quite as cool and collected-like as I planned. Fuck, I’m gonna look like an invalid.

Might even be one.

Nah, don’t think like that. I got a future. I got a lot more songs to write and girls to fuck and money to make. Doesn’t matter if I’ve got a hole in my gut and a hand that’s probably too damaged to play with again and a mouth like a moonshine hillbilly.

I’m a star, baby. A star in training. Hell, this is just another highlight reel for them to show on my Behind the Music documentary. He did drugs, he had sex with girls, and at the age of twenty four he had a building fall on top of him.

Why the fuck haven’t they pulled me out yet?

Ah damn it. I don’t even know how the hell this happened. I pass out in a tequila haze and the next thing I know I wake up the next morning to four levels of apartment building collapsing on top of me. Four levels above. That means I’m on the bottom. That means they won’t get to me first by any means. Fuck.

Back to the matter at hand. What asshole did this? Some psycho terrorist? Those guys with beards and bombs strapped to their underwear? Maybe. Or some retard in another apartment might have left the gas on and lit a cigarette. Maybe Mrs. Olroney’s cunt friend in 3B.

Doesn’t make sense. I remember hearing something before the sky went all Chicken Little. It wasn’t a bang. It was a rumble. Then the cabinets opening and spilling the plates out in the kitchen, and then a twang sound in the corner. My guitar falling over.

After that was a sound like a tsunami crashing down over my skull. Must have been the building falling down. All this and my eyes stayed closed the whole time. Heard it like a goddamn dream. Wish it was.

So not a bomb or a gas explosion. Earthquake maybe. Shit that means Dad was right. Watch out for homos and earthquakes, he said. Fucking drunk ass shitbag.

Shouldn’t have left him.

Where the fuck did that come from? I’m glad as hell I left his old ass. He was only keeping me down. Wouldn’t even buy me alcohol anymore after the cops almost caught us that time. Didn’t care about my music, didn’t care when I dropped out of school, and he sure as shit didn’t care about me.

But his face when I left. Accepting it but looking like he failed at something…

Shit I need to quit it with this crap. All that matters now is getting out of this pile.

Help! I scream. Help! Man down, here!

Don’t hear anything. Maybe a faint rustling above but who knows what that is. Could be a fireman digging us out, or it could be a rat just as trapped as I am

I hear a sound escaping my lips that seems like a cross between a moan and a sob.

Get it together, asshole! You don’t die here. You die in a drug haze while having sex with six underage girls when you’re forty, or your brakes give out while drag racing on Sunset Strip on a cocaine high. Something glamorous like that. Not buried under a pile of rubble at the age of twenty four when not even a goddamn soul knows my name yet.

There’s that sound again.

Even those girls, so eager to jump my bones, probably don’t remember my name. Only Pam with her ugly pimply mug and her big ass with that stupid butterfly tattoo on it knows my name. I hate that bitch, but damn if she doesn’t love the shit out of me.

Don’t even know why I hate her. She’s not really ugly. She’s not the sharpest tool in the shed, but she does buy me shit and drive me home when I’m wasted. Hell, if she had been around last night, she might have been crushed to hell in the bed beside me. That slab of sheetrock holding my arm would also be pinning her corpse.

Glad she bailed on me.

Cause now the bitch can pay to fix me up, right? I mean, yeah she told me she was done with me yesterday morning, and yeah she didn’t show up to the gig like she usually does, but I bet she just went home to cry and eat a box of doughnuts or some shit.

She didn’t leave me. Nobody leaves me. I leave them.

That hole in my gut hurts like hell now that I know it’s there. Or I think it does anyway. Could just be my mind fucking with me. Psychosomasticating, or whatever the hell they call it. Hope I’m not losing too much blood. I’ll probably know soon enough when I start to feel like I’m huffing whippets and start seeing things.

Like my dad’s face, watching me walk out the door.

Goddamn it. Why didn’t I ever call that bastard after I left? Probably because he was a sorry piece of shit too drunk to pick up the phone, that’s why. And I was too busy.

Always too busy. Building my career. I’m a big man now, and I don’t have time for people that hold me back. Not Dad, not Pam, not anyone.

I was gonna go hit the studio and record a new demo tape next week. The one that would have made me famous and had the suits drooling.

Who the fuck am I kidding? The studio was Ben’s garage and I know we would have just sat there smoking weed and talking about Floyd and Hendrix until I fell asleep and Ben kicked me out. Just like we did the last two times. Didn’t record a note. There was always next time.

Next time.

I don’t think there’s going to be a next time.

This is the end, son. My dad says that as he sits in his recliner with beer stains on his shirt, a half-eaten bag of tortilla chips on his lap and a broken heart beating in his chest. Broken because I made it that way. I made it that way by leaving and before that I made it that way by staying and surrounding him with blame, aggression, and cold endless silence.

This is the end. I had that very thought when I looked into his eyes for the last time. This is the last image of my father I will ever have.

I was right. I never saw him again.

Shit, listen to me. Acting like I can’t get right the fuck up and visit his drunk ass when I get out of this. Probably won’t have shit to say to him, but I can do it. Can do any damn thing I want.

I can lift this building off of me like the Incredible Fucking Hulk and throw it across the damn bay and then fly out of here with the first hot reporter bitch I see on my arm. Fuck her in the clouds and piss out jet fuel all over the sad pricks below. ‘Cause that’s how I roll.

I laugh again, pushing it out despite the flat sound of it and the pain rolling up from my side like a stampeding herd of mutant buffalo. I push it out, almost hoping that the sheer will erupting from my drowning lungs can push this endless hunk of rock off of me, straight into the night sky. Straight into the fucking sun. So far away that I can pretend it never existed. That I never lived here and it never hurt me and I didn’t tell Pam to go fuck herself when she asked me to move in with her.

Can’t do it. Couldn’t leave this place behind. My guitar lives here. So does my pride.

So does the stinking pool of blood and who knows what else leaking through my shirt and pants, maybe even dripping down on some poor bastard who got caught in the laundry room in the basement below me. Drying his boxers and thinking about stocks and bonds or some shit. Maybe the last thought he ever had.

I breathe in deep, wanting to take in the pain and make it strength. Instead I discover that it hurts a bit less now.

That’s a good thing, right?

Then I notice something else. The drip drip dripping from the busted pipe has stopped. Maybe they cut the water off. Good sign. Means they don’t want me or Mr. Stocks and Bonds below me to drown. Good. Good. Good sign.

I want to go to sleep. Seems pretty retarded, I realize. Going to sleep might mean I could miss them if they yelled at me. Might end up lying here an extra hour or two just because my forty winks made me miss the first train out of here. Still…I’m fucking tired. Didn’t get a full night’s sleep because of this shit.

Might crash at Pam’s tonight. Probably for the best. She’s not the best lay I’ve had, but at least she doesn’t snore and she doesn’t smell like Jaeger and throw-up like that last chick.

Good old Pam. Always wants me no matter what I do to her or how many horrible things I say.

The sob is back. I don’t hear it this time so much as feel it crawl out of my throat like some half-dead amphibian.

Pam doesn’t want me anymore. She said that. She said, “I don’t want you anymore.” Last thing she said. Maybe not those exact words. Don’t think I was really listening, but that’s the gist of it. Told me to get the fuck out and never call her again. Yeah…like it was me that called her half the time.

But it was, wasn’t it? All those nights I was too drunk to score pussy and too wasted to drive home, my fingers hit her number like an ancient rhythm programmed into them. Just like my guitar. My songs…and Pam’s number. As much a part of me as the English language.

Phone’s probably gone. I can get another, right? I can get another, and some new fingers. But…will those fingers remember? Will they remember like the old ones did?

The sob is more of a wail this time. Again, I don’t hear it. What will I do if my fingers don’t remember anymore? I can’t think of the numbers in my head. 330-40...something…996….

God dammit, I scream, or I think I do. Only my fingers knew her number. I can’t see them, but I think those fingers are gone now. Smashed up and ruined. Never able to dial again.

I feel the wet tears on my temples, sliding down the floor beneath me. It’s good to feel something, but all I can think about right now is how much I’ve lost. I lost my guitar. Smashed in the corner, I think. I lost my hand. Busted to shit or worse. I lost Pam’s number.

I lost Pam.

I lost my Dad.

I lost my way.

I lost.

I lost.

I lost.

I scream again, my head violently rising up, smacking into the rock above me, leaving a welt I can feel but don’t give a shit about.

This is not the way this is supposed to happen! I don’t die like this! I just don’t! Some nameless shit on the news does, not me!

I DON’T DIE THIS WAY!!!

I’m crying. I can feel it in my throat and in the vibrations in my face and in the blood that comes bubbling up with each one of my sobs. I cry, and I cry and I cry. I cry until something strange starts to happen.

A part of me begins to shift away. I keep crying, but I can’t feel it so much anymore. My body is going numb, I think. I being to feel less like a man trapped under a building and more like a man watching a man trapped under a building. Watching him cry. Watching how fragile he is. How empty his life is. How alone he is and how…worthless he always was.

That man is still crying. I think that’s all he knows how to do now. His arms and legs no longer move. His chest still rises and falls with each breathe, but that’s getting slower now. Only the sobs. Only the sobs make me think he’s still alive.

I can see now. I can see the truth of his body. His left hand is mangled beyond recognition. His pinky finger is there, but the rest of it…just isn’t. His right arm is fine, but if he isn’t rescued it won’t be for long. That slab of sheetrock is cutting off his circulation. Soon he won’t be able to play…or dial…with that hand either. His ribcage is more of a mess than he thought. Three of his ribs are not only broken, but basically obliterated. How he can still talk or breathe is a mystery. And of course there’s the matter of the retaining bar piercing his liver. Any higher and it would have pierced his lung or his heart and none of this would matter. But…I think none of this really matters anyway. I think it never really did.

I snap back to attention like a kid who overslept for school. My head hits the rock again, and I feel it again. For a second I can hear the drip drip dripping again, but then that goes. I still feel the tears. Some more brick dust falls in my face and I think I hear another rumble close by. I have a quick feeling of dread before I push it away. What can another earthquake do, crush me some more?

That was fucking weird. I saw myself like I was watching a movie. I like movies. I fucking hated this one.

Am I really that bad off, or was I just hallucinating? No…I think it was all real. As real as hearing a ghost or seeing the future or a goddamn alien abduction. Out of body experience. My dad wouldn’t have believed in that, but my mom would have. Maybe she had one before the cancer took her. Fuck if I know. I wasn’t there.

I was sitting in the back of an empty school bus, letting Tina Jackson blow me while I got high. I thought about Mom, sure. I thought about her too much. So much that I had to get away. So much that I couldn’t watch her die, like Dad did.

All of a sudden, I realize something. I realize I’m still crying, but I also realize that all this time I was right.

I’m not meant for this.

I was not meant to die crushed under a building, unrecognizable and uncared for and alone. I was not meant to get a girl who loved me pregnant and then ditch her...again. I was not meant to waste my weekends talking about a record deal that will never happen and chasing tail that will never even remember my name. I was not meant to end up in this town, living a life of wasted freedom, far away from a father I was never meant to leave and a mother I was not meant to abandon on her deathbed.

I was not meant to be in that school bus that day. I was meant to be with her. With Mom. I was meant to hold her hand and tell her I loved her and tell her she did good raising me and that I’m going to go on to be something that would make her proud. And I was meant to go on…and be that something.

I don’t know what. It doesn’t matter. But it was not meant to be this.

The crying has stopped. It may be because I don’t feel it anymore, but I think it’s more because my mind has finally let go of something. I’ve finally let go of myself. I’m finally seeing the big picture. Too little, too late.

Because it really is over now. This is not where I’m meant to be, but it is, nevertheless, where I am. There will be no record deal. There will be no women lining up to be with me. There will be no Behind the Music special and there will be no Pam.

Soon I will close my eyes, if I haven’t already, and all of this will disappear. The rocks, the busted pipes, the mattress under my back and my body with it. I’ll be buried in a cheap grave some distant aunt I’ve seen twice will pay for out of pity for my father…or my father’s memory. No one will visit me. And those that walk by me will not think twice about my name. Unremarkable. Forgotten.

Something’s happening, I think. My eyes are still seeing darkness, but there are shapes beyond it. There’s also a…weight, hanging off my arms. No…it’s my arms themselves that are hanging. It’s not a mattress on my back anymore. Something harder. Like a stretcher. There are hands on my stomach, pressing where the rusty metal bar was.

Oh those hands feel so good. To be touched by someone, to have someone want to touch me…it makes me smile. I think I am smiling. I hope I am.

I let myself think then that those hands are my father’s. That he’s picking me up off the ground after I sprained my ankle playing baseball. He’ll toss me over his shoulders and tickle me until the tears turn into laughter and my pain turns into joy at how much he loves me and how much the world does.

It’s all ahead of me. All of it. I’ll be someone. I’ll be someone and someone will love me.

That girl over there will. The one I think I see out of eyes that only sort of work. I can see shapes. People standing over me. People carrying me. And a girl walking with them. She’s crying. She’s crying and she’s so beautiful.

She takes my hand in hers and I feel what’s left of my fingers begin to move. Typing something, I think. A number. She doesn’t know what it means.

Her name is Pam. She loves me.

That really does make me smile. I can tell because she smiles back.

I think I’ll sleep now. I’ll sleep and when I wake up I’ll tell Mom about the beautiful girl I met. I’ll tell her I want a guitar and I’ll tell her how I’m going to buy her a house when I’m famous.

I’ll tell her…and I’ll do it.

Because it’s all ahead of me.

Crushed

Copyright Rob White 2010

The Golden Turd

Love it when I decide to hit the gas pedal only to crash into a mailbox seconds later.

A few weeks ago I had a spark of creative inspiration. I had an idea for a new short story, actually wrote it, and prepared myself for a new era of personal creativity. So I turned back to my novel, in the works for fifteen years, raring to go.

And that's when I hit the mailbox. See, my novel is a a gargantuan, ponderous behemoth. Actually five short novels, it's a modern superhero tale about a boy with no memory, the monster that chases him, and all the weird wild adventures he gets into along the way. Sounds ridiculous because it is. By the end of it, some incredibly bad things have happened, nobody's happy and two thirds of the characters have died heroic but terrible deaths. Sounds like fun, huh?

Thing is, I just can't pull myself away from this beast. Hah. Unintended pun there (the story is called The Pull).

It's been eating away at me, demanding to be told since I doodled it out when I should have been paying attention in math class in high school. The characters started as archetypes of people I wanted to either be or be near, and like most good stories, they soon gained a life of their own and started doing things I never expected of them (the foul-mouthed, socially stunted ass kicker girl actually ends up being the true hero for much of the story).

I finished writing it...the first time...in college. It was an enormous weight off my chest, until I quickly realized that everything about it screamed 1994. The characters were often ripped straight out of a video game. The bad guys weren't fleshed out enough, except for Nick's monstrous stalker, who was so fleshed out that he (it) had lost all his mystery. The resolution was way cheesier than I intended it to be. The whole thing felt like a masterpiece buried under a layer of glitter and throwup. Lovely image, I know.

It still feels that way. I've re-written the first book four times now. The second and third three times, and I still can't get far enough in to rewrite the last two. I always throw my hands up in defeat before I get there.

The problems are the same problems I've always had. How do I retain the essence of the characters while stripping away the ridiculous? How do you maintain the relevance of a character who fights with a sword or her fists when you know damn well her assailants should all be using firearms? Even Batman get's shot from time to time. Put him in a room with 300 armed goons...he'll likely get shot a lot. I'm up against a scene now, however, where Nick and Melissa (emo amnesia kid and foul mouthed Xena woman) are literally supposed to take on an army base full of trained killers and walk out without a scratch. Oh, and they don't kill, so all of those guys have to be knocked out/disabled. See what I mean? That kind of thing worked for Superman in the 1980's. Not so much now. It makes me groan with disbelief, and I'm the one writing it.

Nick and Melissa are empowered by a force I won't get into for the sake of not spoiling it. They can do things no one else can do, yada yada yada. They've also been through some shit. Both of them are extremely emotionally traumatized individuals. Melissa was beaten by her father at age twelve, molested by her uncle even younger (who is also a major character), and flees into a life of violence and immorality. Nick is...well...no use putting the biggest spoiler in the book here. Let's just say he's not quite emotionally developed. So I have these very real people doing very unreal, cartoonish things.

I feel like I have something cool there. The bridge between the hyper real and the fantastic has always been one I love to travel. Part of the reason I love Lost so much. These are realistic characters in a fantastic environment. But...Sawyer doesn't start doing backflips and beating up The Others with his ninja skills. If he did, I would tune out.

There's a powerful emotional tale here. I just can't make myself get past the stupid. That being said, one of my favorite characters is a seven foot tall metal demon. Go figure.

Anyway, just wanted to vent...and write. I still have to write something. I hate it that I can't happily work on my magnum opus because it feels like a magnum poopus, but I still have to put finger to keyboard somehow.

Thanks for bearing with me, and any advice would be greatly appreciated. :)

The Nature of Now

Regret. It’s been the single most crippling thing in my life up to this point. Every day something pricks me like a needle, reminding me of what I should have done, what never should have happened, who I should have gotten closer to and who I should have made myself become. There have been phases in my life where I’ve been woefully incomplete, shambling around like a half-person because I simply believed that everything I had done up to that point had been wrong.

We all know that regret solves little. To spend a day mourning a past you should have had is to waste that day. We all know that the only true way to improve our situation, to achieve our dreams, is to focus on today and tomorrow instead of agonizing over yesterday.

We all know that, but most of us carry that regret with us anyway. Something happened that shouldn’t have and the voice in the back of our minds will never let us forget it.

In my case, the burden I carry is largely not over something I did, but over things I didn’t do. When I was in high school, I felt the world crushing me. All the anger and the pain and the sorrow around me (from teenagers like myself, mostly, each with their own pressing problems) made me feel as if I would be flattened under it all. That no amount of trying could ever dig me out of the sorrows of the world. Very emo of me, right?

So since the weight of the world felt as if it were on my shoulders, I decided I could do one of two things. The first was to let it crush me. To allow all the picking and anger and humiliation directed at me to break my spirit and lead me to violence, as it has so many other vulnerable young souls in our society. I could never hurt others, but I could have hurt myself.

I had another choice however. That choice was to take that world sitting on my shoulders and carry it as such. I would accept all the pain of those around me and I would turn it into strength and resolve. The resolve to one day find a way to take that pain away from them, so that they and others like them would one day have no reason to hurt me or anyone else ever again. What’s the best way to deal with a villain? You turn him into a hero.

So I spent years writing and dreaming about how the world needed to change. How the faults of society could one day be corrected and prevent hatred and ignorance and greed from ever taking hold in our youth and in our culture. In my view simplicity was the answer. So much of our vice comes from unnecessary things we step over each other to gain. Material things, which in my view translated to a waste of time and spirit. I wanted us all to live like the Native Americans of old, the tribes of primal Africa, even the early settlers in Europe and our own country. They found joy not in gain or self-empowerment, but simply in living. Yes, they had war and greed and ignorance just as we did, but underneath those things they loved life and each other in a way I find uncommon these days. Our distraction is American Idol or CSI Miami. Their distraction was a rushing waterfall or a herd of grazing buffalo. It doesn’t take a psychologist to determine which one is probably healthier for the soul.

I still believe these things just as much. My ideas have evolved. I understand the practicality, and in some cases lack-thereof of my original ideas. But I still want them. My dream, to those that don’t know this, is to one day provide a place and a way of life to those of us that want it. An escape from the seemingly inescapable trap of society as we know it. A place where the goal is not to buy a better car or sleep with a hotter girl, but to build something worth building. To live from the land and from the aid of others. To trade, not to take. To give, not to steal. To truly experience, every day what it means to be alive.

That goal has never changed, and yet for twelve years I did little to achieve it. I talked and I wrote and I dreamed, but in all that time I didn’t actually do anything. Sometimes it was because the people around me seemed to embrace their shortcomings instead of fight them. That discouraged me. Sometimes it was because I took the time to be distracted by a pursuit of one love or another that simply wasn’t meant to be. Lately it has become because I have lost everything financially and it seems that every day is a struggle to find enough money to feed my cat.

And through all of those twelve years, I have regretted. I have blamed myself for not taking my dreams, my grand resolve, and making them a reality. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, right? And yet I have not taken that step. Sure I’ve had some false starts, but I have never truly begun to walk that path.

So I blame myself for a youth wasted. Sometimes I do, at least. Sometimes I look at the years that have passed and wonder why I did not run instead of crawl. I can blame it on distraction, which is true. I can blame it on my own ignorance, of never knowing how to begin making my dream a reality, which is also true. I can also blame it on fear, of knowing that in committing to a cause, I will lose many things I will never get back. This is perhaps the truest excuse of all. But in the end, they are all simply excuses. I did not act because I did not act. If I had acted…well, I wouldn’t be here talking about it, would I?

Which has led me to an old philosophical interest of mine: The nature of destiny. Do I believe that our eventual destination in the cosmos is determined by choices we make throughout our short lives? Choices that seem important to us but are truly insignificant in the face of human history and the grand scheme of the universe? In essence, do I believe our life culminates in a crossroads, and the only choices are salvation or damnation? No. In fact, I do not.

I do believe in the benevolence of the world. By the world, I mean God. By God I mean the Tao. By The Tao I mean The Atman or Mother Earth. You see where I’m going with this. Since I believe in that benevolence, I believe that everything will turn out alright in the end. All of our suffering and pain will have been for something, and that one day mankind will earn its salvation.

The reason I believe this is because I believe that it’s already happened. It has happened, and is happening, and will happen forever. Just as the act of me writing this and you reading it is not only happening now, but has always happened.

You were always here, now, reading this.

Think about it. If this day were to play itself over and you were presented the same set of choices and circumstances that led you here, you would make them again. And again. And again. Since we do not know the future, we are in fact destined to create it.

Believe in God? Ok. Believe God knows everything? Cool. Now how does God know everything? Past, present and future? I believe that God knows everything because God IS everything. Past, present, future, creation, destruction, sorrow, joy, thought, instinct, everything…all at once.

Think of time…of destiny…not like book with a beginning a middle and end, but like a map spread out on the table. A great, endless map. See the world? There’s America and Europe and Asia. Say America is what you did yesterday, Europe is what you’re doing now, and Asia is what you will do tomorrow. When you look up close at the middle of the map, you can only see Europe. Now take a step back. Now another. See that? Now you can see America and Asia too. What does that mean? It means you’re seeing today, yesterday and tomorrow all at once because they all exist that way…all at once. This, I believe, is the way God, or any mind potentially more developed than ours, sees history. All at once.

Still want to think of your life like a story? Like a novel with a beginning and an ending? Fine. Pick up the nearest book. Open the first page and read the first word. There…you were just born. Now skip to the end and read the last word. There…you just died. Now go to the middle and read a sentence. That’s you getting married. Now…go back to the beginning. That first word is still there, exactly the same as it was the first time you read it. By reading it again, you’re reliving your birth. As you read the first page, that last page is still there, signifying your death. When we pick up a 600 page book and read page 1 for the first time, page 134 is already there. It’s already written and it already says what it will say when you eventually get to it. Just like life, the novel is already written. Past, present and future are all already there, and always have been from the beginning of…everything.

Now, do I think that means our choices mean nothing? Absolutely not. All the epic moments in our life, from our first kiss to the day some of us stand up and change the world still have to happen. Just because somebody has already written our book doesn’t mean that we have to know how it ends. In fact, we can’t. Our choices are just as real in this worldview as they are in any other. After all, don’t you root for the hero in a novel? Don’t your fear for their safety as they face great peril, even though the author already knows what happens to him or her? The ending has already been written, but the journey has yet to unfold before us.

Believing this, and reminding myself that I believe it now more than ever, has given me a measure of comfort and eased some of my regret. After all, the past has happened. It has always happened. I can never, ever change it. If I were reborn exactly as I was 29 years ago I would behave exactly as I did on the way to this point in my life.

I have always written this and you have always read it.

Therefore…tomorrow has already happened. It has always happened exactly the way it will. To me, that’s thrilling. I feel as if I’m turning the page now, dying to find out what I do next. I will make mistakes. I will help people and I will hurt them. I will encourage and I will disappoint. I will change the world…or I won’t. The point is…I will.

I will act towards my dreams because I know how I want things to happen, but when they do not happen the way I wish they had…I will take heart knowing that my current failure was always meant to be…and the successes of tomorrow will always, always be real.

So perhaps, on that map of history God is peering at right now…I’ve already fulfilled my dreams. Maybe my goals have already been reached, and the weakness I feel right now is just one small step on the road to reaching them.

I may not know what lies before me, but I have to believe that someone, somewhere does.

And I’d like to believe that someone is smiling.