ID Software people,
Wow. Your website is awful. Has anyone ever told you that?
I just played the demo for Doom 3 for the MAC. (Yeah, I'm years behind everyone else.) It was a great game. I want to buy it. You know, I want to GIVE YOU MONEY and DOWNLOAD a copy of the game. How difficult could that possibly be?
Pretty goddamn difficult, it turns out. Your website doesn't even have an area where I can buy the Mac version of the game and have it mailed to me, let alone download a version of the game. And Doom 3 has been out for years now. Don't you want my money? I have money! I want to give it to you! And I can't!
Do you see how this is a bad business model?
On some pages, when I click "buy now" (to buy a PC game I don't want) I get the following error message:
PHP Notice: Undefined index: rtcw in E:\web\id\games\wolfenstein\rtcw\c-buy.php on line 7
Whoops. Even the games you are selling, which are of no use to me, can't be purchased.
How difficult could it possibly be? What other business model are you working under? Have all the games you've ever made, in PC and in Mac format, available for download, where people can pay you, using Visa or Mastercard or maybe Paypal. What other option is there? This is such a BASIC idea, I can't figure out how you missed it. This is something all the small businesses are doing. I thought pros like you would be on board.
Yes, people can buy your games in stores. But more and more people want to buy things through their computer. Your online store shouldn't be a lazy afterthought. If you're going to do it, do it right.
Why are you selling T-shirts? No one is thinking, "I wonder if they sell Doom t-shirts at the ID website? I'm going to head over there right now." Stick to what you know.
Quite frankly, it's websites like yours that lead to hacking. Hackers can deliver the product to me better than you can. If I wasn't a moral person, I'd be playing Doom 3 right now, instead of emailing you. Seriously -- when I typed "doom 3 Mac" into google, the first option on the google suggestion list was "Doom 3 Mac torrent".
Whether you like it or not, your business competes with the delivery model of pirates. Right now, their service is better than yours. What are you going to do about it?
You might be wondering why I am sending this email to "jobs@idsoftware.com". It's because I cannot find a button anywhere on your site marked "contact us". I went through every single screen, before giving up. This "jobs" email address was tucked into your "we're hiring" section, and was the only email address I could find. I hope to god you're going to hire someone to make your website worth visiting.
You may be wondering, why do you have me as a (potential) customer in the first place? Because I've been trying to play first person shooters on my iPhone, and it's ridiculous. They're too small. I was playing Duke Nukem on that tiny screen, and my brain said, "Stop. This is not an immersive first person shooter experience. Go look for something to play on your computer."
And I remembered Doom from my 20s. I'm almost 40. I'd pretty much given up on video games, when my iPhone rekindled my interest.
Your website doused the spark with a bucket of water. If there is a way to make your website any less useful, I don't know how to do it.
Despite the tone I'm taking, I hope these comments prove useful, and light a fire under someone, somewhere. To sum up my thought:
YOU COULD BE MAKING MORE MONEY IF YOUR WEBSITE WASN'T SO AWFUL.
Sincerely,
Nikolaus Maack
[my phone number and mailing address deleted]
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
The Flu Shot That Ate Your Brain
There's mercury in the H1N1 flu shot, John Akpata said on his wall on Facebook. Mercury causes brain damage. There's no way he's getting the shot.
Goading him a little, I asked how he felt about fluoride in the drinking water. I knew what his answer would be, as I'd heard John rant about fluoride before. It was my hope he would start ranting about fluoridated water, and scare off people who might take him seriously about flu shots.
John didn't disappoint me.
Fluoride, John wrote, weakens your bones and makes your hair fall out. Toothpaste has warnings on the tube to contact poison control centres if you swallow the stuff. The KGB and Israel used fluoride against their enemies.
John told me to do a Google search on dentists against fluoride. Do a search on YouTube for fluoride.
Of course, if you do a Google search for "UFOs disguised as clouds", you'll find many videos and websites. Just saying.
As he talked about mercury and fluoride, John implied (but never stated outright) that there's some great big government conspiracy at work.
"If I was a first nations person, I would not accept free blankets from Geoffrey Amherst. If I was Jewish, I would not accept a tattoo from Goebbles. I would not accept a cigarette from the Marlborough man, nor a 40 oz from Jack Daniels himself, let alone a flu shot with mercury in it, that medical professionals are losing their jobs for refusing to take."
Equating the flu shot with Nazi tattoos and gifts of diseased blankets seemed to imply there's a conspiracy going on. Which sounds a little insane.
Okay, let's be honest -- it sounds VERY insane.
As I criticized John's position, he grew irritated. He said I was attacking him.
I replied that I wasn't attacking him, just questioning his beliefs.
And really, that's all there was to it. I respect John Akpata as a poet, a public speaker, a debater, and a free spirit. But when it comes to chemistry and health, I'm going to listen to the Canadian Dental Association and the Canadian Medical Association. I value their expertise a little more than John's. They do real research. John surfs Google.
Lately I find myself astounded at people's lack of faith in public institutions. Yes, there are examples of corruption and deceit and profiteering out there. On the whole, though, North American institutions have been fairly reliable. If the powers-that-be say a flu shot is safe and a good idea, they're probably right.
(Several people reading this, including John Akpata, just yelled at their monitors: "Oh my God, Nik, how can you be so naive?!")
Unfortunately for John, I have entered a new phase of my life. Once upon a time, a person would say something way "out there", and I would think:
"Well, could be. Who am I to question their beliefs? It's not like I know any better. Let's see where they go with this. Keep an open mind. Be polite."
Nowadays, my tolerance for "out there" is much lower. If someone says something that strikes me as crazy, I feel compelled to politely speak my mind.
That's why, when John told his friends on Facebook that the flu shot is hitleresque, I felt the need to speak for the other side of the debate.
In our discussion, John summed up what motivates his worldview: "It is not fear, Nik - it is dedication to knowledge."
But what kind of knowledge, exactly? John's study of these subjects seems to ignore the experts, seeking out the fringes. Why listen to crackpots and conspiracy theorists, and not the people who have done years and years of research?
David Suzuki sums it all up nicely. When he was asked if he was getting the flu shot, he replied:
"Yes. I'm just astounded at people. Do they think doctors, scientists and government are out to poison them or something?"
That appears to be exactly what some people are saying.
Goading him a little, I asked how he felt about fluoride in the drinking water. I knew what his answer would be, as I'd heard John rant about fluoride before. It was my hope he would start ranting about fluoridated water, and scare off people who might take him seriously about flu shots.
John didn't disappoint me.
Fluoride, John wrote, weakens your bones and makes your hair fall out. Toothpaste has warnings on the tube to contact poison control centres if you swallow the stuff. The KGB and Israel used fluoride against their enemies.
John told me to do a Google search on dentists against fluoride. Do a search on YouTube for fluoride.
Of course, if you do a Google search for "UFOs disguised as clouds", you'll find many videos and websites. Just saying.
As he talked about mercury and fluoride, John implied (but never stated outright) that there's some great big government conspiracy at work.
"If I was a first nations person, I would not accept free blankets from Geoffrey Amherst. If I was Jewish, I would not accept a tattoo from Goebbles. I would not accept a cigarette from the Marlborough man, nor a 40 oz from Jack Daniels himself, let alone a flu shot with mercury in it, that medical professionals are losing their jobs for refusing to take."
Equating the flu shot with Nazi tattoos and gifts of diseased blankets seemed to imply there's a conspiracy going on. Which sounds a little insane.
Okay, let's be honest -- it sounds VERY insane.
As I criticized John's position, he grew irritated. He said I was attacking him.
I replied that I wasn't attacking him, just questioning his beliefs.
And really, that's all there was to it. I respect John Akpata as a poet, a public speaker, a debater, and a free spirit. But when it comes to chemistry and health, I'm going to listen to the Canadian Dental Association and the Canadian Medical Association. I value their expertise a little more than John's. They do real research. John surfs Google.
Lately I find myself astounded at people's lack of faith in public institutions. Yes, there are examples of corruption and deceit and profiteering out there. On the whole, though, North American institutions have been fairly reliable. If the powers-that-be say a flu shot is safe and a good idea, they're probably right.
(Several people reading this, including John Akpata, just yelled at their monitors: "Oh my God, Nik, how can you be so naive?!")
Unfortunately for John, I have entered a new phase of my life. Once upon a time, a person would say something way "out there", and I would think:
"Well, could be. Who am I to question their beliefs? It's not like I know any better. Let's see where they go with this. Keep an open mind. Be polite."
Nowadays, my tolerance for "out there" is much lower. If someone says something that strikes me as crazy, I feel compelled to politely speak my mind.
That's why, when John told his friends on Facebook that the flu shot is hitleresque, I felt the need to speak for the other side of the debate.
In our discussion, John summed up what motivates his worldview: "It is not fear, Nik - it is dedication to knowledge."
But what kind of knowledge, exactly? John's study of these subjects seems to ignore the experts, seeking out the fringes. Why listen to crackpots and conspiracy theorists, and not the people who have done years and years of research?
David Suzuki sums it all up nicely. When he was asked if he was getting the flu shot, he replied:
"Yes. I'm just astounded at people. Do they think doctors, scientists and government are out to poison them or something?"
That appears to be exactly what some people are saying.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Martyrs and Masturbators
I had this dream in which a tyrannosaurus rex has been shot full of arrows. He could also talk. The arrows made me think of Catholic saints and martyrs. I remembered seeing a depiction of a saint shot through with arrows somewhere.
So I googled "arrows" and "martyr" and found out that the saint full of arrows was Saint Sebastian. Some emperor named Diocletian ordered him to be shot full of arrows until he looked like a hedgehog.
I'm not at all religious, so the idea of saints and martyrs means little to me. Saints die gruesome deaths, much like Jesus dying on the cross. Somehow all that pain is supposed to be good for us. I've seen the movie "The Passion of the Christ," and as an atheist it just seemed like a really boring horror movie. That anyone could watch it and think, "Wow, this is so moving and religious," horrifies me.
Whenever I think of Jesus, and how Christians say he died on the cross for us, I have to wonder if Christianity is a masochism cult. There's this idea that enduring great pain and torture is somehow holy. How many people in Western culture are prone to embracing pointless pain because of the Jesus myth?
If you stick your hand in the fire, and it burns you, take your hand out of the fire. There's no reason to hold your hand in the fire for as long as you can.
In art, there are many portraits of Sebastian skewered with arrows. It appears to be a favourite theme. Wikipedia shows quite a few of these paintings, and they're all vaguely interesting.
Then I saw this one...
Sebastian with one arrow. Click for larger photo.
In this painting, Sebastian is basically naked, except for a tastefully draped robe. A single arrow is sticking out of Sebastian's crotch, suggesting it's an erect penis. Sebastian is holding the arrow like it's his boner, and he's masturbating. And the way his head is thrown back, it's as if he's experiencing sexual ecstasy, not pain. Is this a man who has been shot in the gut with an arrow? Or is this a young man jerking off?
Dying for god is a very old idea. Here, we're being show someone dying for Christianity, being martyred, his face turned towards heaven. And he's basically wanking. I suppose the painting is meant to serve as a connection dying for god and physical pleasure.
Trying to find out more information about this painting proved difficult. I did come across someone in a forum talking about how artists would paint "bible scenes" which would allow them to create erotic paintings under the guise of being religious. This reminds me of how in the early 60s, sex films would have to add some "educational" element to their films, in order to sneak past censorship laws.
Is that what's going on in this painting? Did the artist want to paint a homoerotic depiction of a young man masturbating? He took the Sebastian myth, removed most of the arrows, stuck one on the crotch, and took it from there?
The idea of confusing pain, pleasure, death throes of ecstasy, sexual ecstasy, and the ecstasy of god creeps me out. These things probably should be kept in separate boxes, where they can't get mixed together.
That is all.
So I googled "arrows" and "martyr" and found out that the saint full of arrows was Saint Sebastian. Some emperor named Diocletian ordered him to be shot full of arrows until he looked like a hedgehog.
I'm not at all religious, so the idea of saints and martyrs means little to me. Saints die gruesome deaths, much like Jesus dying on the cross. Somehow all that pain is supposed to be good for us. I've seen the movie "The Passion of the Christ," and as an atheist it just seemed like a really boring horror movie. That anyone could watch it and think, "Wow, this is so moving and religious," horrifies me.
Whenever I think of Jesus, and how Christians say he died on the cross for us, I have to wonder if Christianity is a masochism cult. There's this idea that enduring great pain and torture is somehow holy. How many people in Western culture are prone to embracing pointless pain because of the Jesus myth?
If you stick your hand in the fire, and it burns you, take your hand out of the fire. There's no reason to hold your hand in the fire for as long as you can.
In art, there are many portraits of Sebastian skewered with arrows. It appears to be a favourite theme. Wikipedia shows quite a few of these paintings, and they're all vaguely interesting.
Then I saw this one...
Sebastian with one arrow. Click for larger photo.
In this painting, Sebastian is basically naked, except for a tastefully draped robe. A single arrow is sticking out of Sebastian's crotch, suggesting it's an erect penis. Sebastian is holding the arrow like it's his boner, and he's masturbating. And the way his head is thrown back, it's as if he's experiencing sexual ecstasy, not pain. Is this a man who has been shot in the gut with an arrow? Or is this a young man jerking off?
Dying for god is a very old idea. Here, we're being show someone dying for Christianity, being martyred, his face turned towards heaven. And he's basically wanking. I suppose the painting is meant to serve as a connection dying for god and physical pleasure.
Trying to find out more information about this painting proved difficult. I did come across someone in a forum talking about how artists would paint "bible scenes" which would allow them to create erotic paintings under the guise of being religious. This reminds me of how in the early 60s, sex films would have to add some "educational" element to their films, in order to sneak past censorship laws.
Is that what's going on in this painting? Did the artist want to paint a homoerotic depiction of a young man masturbating? He took the Sebastian myth, removed most of the arrows, stuck one on the crotch, and took it from there?
The idea of confusing pain, pleasure, death throes of ecstasy, sexual ecstasy, and the ecstasy of god creeps me out. These things probably should be kept in separate boxes, where they can't get mixed together.
That is all.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Parents Are Pain
Tarzan was raised by apes. There are cases of kids raised by wolves. Charles was abandoned in a sex club as a baby and raised by masochists. They weren't just sexual deviants, engaging in pain play. Pain was their religion, their daily life, their everything.
His parents kept his adoption a secret from him. All the same, being from a different species meant he never quite fit in.
"Show your mother you love her -- beat her with this riding crop," his father said.
"No!" Charles yelled.
"It's okay, son," his mother said. "It doesn't mean you hate mommy! Quite the opposite."
"No! I won't do it!"
"Son, you need to understand," his father explained, "when you whip a masochist, you're not really hurting them. For some, pain is transformed into pleasure."
"And as a sadist, you're not really in charge," his mom chimed in. "The masochist is in charge. The top and the bottom create a script ahead of time, negotiate rules, but the masochist decides how far things go. It's all about role playing."
His father nodded agreement. "That's why mommy and daddy have safewords. Understand? Now come here and slap your father across the face."
"No!" Charles screamed.
So went the terrible-twos for Charles.
It was a particularly confusing time when he reached adolescence. If Charles hit his mother and father, it meant he loved them. If he hugged them, it meant that he loved them. How could he rebel?
Charles settled on indifference. He perfected a cold, detached, scientific demeanour which he accentuated with a white lab coat, clipboard, and glasses. He shaved his head, so that he looked prematurely bald. Whenever his parents did something that required a hit or a hug, he would peer down his nose at them.
"Interesting," the fourteen year old Charles would say, slowly drawing out the word. He had perfected the ability of turning his face into a blank slate, showing zero emotion. "Very interesting."
And then he would scribble a note on his clipboard. At the end of the month, he wrote up a report of his observations and submitted them to his parents -- in triplicate.
"Objectivity!" his father bellowed. "You're ignoring the passion of flesh and rage and pain. That's all there really is! We are meat machines, filled with emotion and violence. Your science is just a mask for your true animal nature. You're in retreat from the body! And you're killing your mother with your objectivity -- do you know that?"
"Where did we go wrong?" his mother yelled at the ceiling. "My son won't hit me! He won't hit his own father! What did we do to deserve such a child?"
Charles started hanging out with kids who were into science. They'd get together on Friday nights and hang out at a local community centre, studying slides of bacteria. They'd go to the library and discuss physics. Sometimes they'd go down to the beach and look for interesting plant and animal specimens. Charles got a paper route, saved his money, and bought a telescope. He'd stay up at late, making notes on stars and comets.
"Why can't you be like little Jimmy Johnson?" his father asked him. "He's experimenting with drugs. He's studying to be a professional dom. They boy has got three girlfriends and two boyfriends. He's getting a Prince Albert genital piercing next week for his birthday. And you! A virgin, at 15! It's so embarrassing."
Charles made a note on his clipboard, then said, "I'm saving myself for marriage."
"You are no son of mine!" his father screamed.
When Charles turned 18, he arranged to go to university with a full scholarship. His plan was to study medicine and specialize in neurology.
"I'm going to rid the world of unnecessary pain," he told his parents. "I'm going to become a pain management expert."
"Your father and I are very disappointed in you," his mother said.
Charles let his hair grow in, stopped carrying a clipboard, and threw himself into his studies. While working hard, he made sure to take breaks for fun and socialization. He was always worried of demonstrating any quality that could be labelled as "masochistic".
During Christmas break with his parents, he unwrapped his present and found nipple clamps.
"They're surgical steel," his mother said. "Easy to clean, in case you bleed a little. Dishwasher safe."
"They were your grandfather's," his father said. "They're a part of our family tradition."
"Thanks," Charles mumbled.
"Try them on," his mother prompted.
"Maybe later."
Charles gave each of his parents a sweater.
"I know it's not latex or leather," Charles said, "but they're very itchy."
"Oh," his mother said weakly, "they seem very nice."
After that particular Christmas, he didn't go home as often. It was simply too awkward. They were all so different.
During his second year of university, Charles got a phone call from his mother.
"It's your father," she said. "He's in the hospital. It's quite serious."
"Auto-erotic asphyxiation?" Charles asked.
"Good guess," his mother said. "Breath play. Your father always was a sucker for strangulation. I guess I overdid it a little."
Charles took the bus home for the weekend. His dad was in a hospital bed, in pain, refusing medication, and seemingly happy. It made no sense to Charles at all.
"Son," his dad said from the hospital bed, "your mother and I probably should have told you this a long time ago."
"We didn't want you to feel weird, or unwanted," his mom said.
"What is it?" Charles asked.
"You're adopted."
Charles let the information soak in for a moment. It made sense. His parents hit him and said it was about love. For him it was just hitting. When they asked him to hit them, it was just pointless cruelty. He never understood, and now it was clear why. He just wasn't wired that way.
"It explains a lot," Charles said, flatly.
"We do love you, in our way," his mother said, and slapped him across the face.
Charles rubbed his burning cheek. He briefly toyed with the idea of punching his father and kicking his mother. These were the sort of gestures they would appreciate, as signs of affection. But he couldn't do it. He wasn't that person.
"I know you guys care," Charles said. "I'm glad you're okay, dad. Be more careful next time."
"You know your old man," he said. "When I get knocked off the horse, I get back on again." And he mimed being strangled and stuck out his tongue.
For the rest of the visit, they stood there making awkward small talk.
Charles rode the bus back to university. As he stared out the window, he thought about his parents and how he was raised. It seemed he would have to resign himself to the idea that he and his parents spoke a different language -- one that Charles would never understand. He'd do his best to avoid their slaps and punches, without striking back. That way, he could stay true to his own nature.
With a start, he realized that so long as he maintained a relationship with his parents, he was enduring a form of masochism. Knowing his mom and dad meant knowing pain.
His parents kept his adoption a secret from him. All the same, being from a different species meant he never quite fit in.
"Show your mother you love her -- beat her with this riding crop," his father said.
"No!" Charles yelled.
"It's okay, son," his mother said. "It doesn't mean you hate mommy! Quite the opposite."
"No! I won't do it!"
"Son, you need to understand," his father explained, "when you whip a masochist, you're not really hurting them. For some, pain is transformed into pleasure."
"And as a sadist, you're not really in charge," his mom chimed in. "The masochist is in charge. The top and the bottom create a script ahead of time, negotiate rules, but the masochist decides how far things go. It's all about role playing."
His father nodded agreement. "That's why mommy and daddy have safewords. Understand? Now come here and slap your father across the face."
"No!" Charles screamed.
So went the terrible-twos for Charles.
It was a particularly confusing time when he reached adolescence. If Charles hit his mother and father, it meant he loved them. If he hugged them, it meant that he loved them. How could he rebel?
Charles settled on indifference. He perfected a cold, detached, scientific demeanour which he accentuated with a white lab coat, clipboard, and glasses. He shaved his head, so that he looked prematurely bald. Whenever his parents did something that required a hit or a hug, he would peer down his nose at them.
"Interesting," the fourteen year old Charles would say, slowly drawing out the word. He had perfected the ability of turning his face into a blank slate, showing zero emotion. "Very interesting."
And then he would scribble a note on his clipboard. At the end of the month, he wrote up a report of his observations and submitted them to his parents -- in triplicate.
"Objectivity!" his father bellowed. "You're ignoring the passion of flesh and rage and pain. That's all there really is! We are meat machines, filled with emotion and violence. Your science is just a mask for your true animal nature. You're in retreat from the body! And you're killing your mother with your objectivity -- do you know that?"
"Where did we go wrong?" his mother yelled at the ceiling. "My son won't hit me! He won't hit his own father! What did we do to deserve such a child?"
Charles started hanging out with kids who were into science. They'd get together on Friday nights and hang out at a local community centre, studying slides of bacteria. They'd go to the library and discuss physics. Sometimes they'd go down to the beach and look for interesting plant and animal specimens. Charles got a paper route, saved his money, and bought a telescope. He'd stay up at late, making notes on stars and comets.
"Why can't you be like little Jimmy Johnson?" his father asked him. "He's experimenting with drugs. He's studying to be a professional dom. They boy has got three girlfriends and two boyfriends. He's getting a Prince Albert genital piercing next week for his birthday. And you! A virgin, at 15! It's so embarrassing."
Charles made a note on his clipboard, then said, "I'm saving myself for marriage."
"You are no son of mine!" his father screamed.
When Charles turned 18, he arranged to go to university with a full scholarship. His plan was to study medicine and specialize in neurology.
"I'm going to rid the world of unnecessary pain," he told his parents. "I'm going to become a pain management expert."
"Your father and I are very disappointed in you," his mother said.
Charles let his hair grow in, stopped carrying a clipboard, and threw himself into his studies. While working hard, he made sure to take breaks for fun and socialization. He was always worried of demonstrating any quality that could be labelled as "masochistic".
During Christmas break with his parents, he unwrapped his present and found nipple clamps.
"They're surgical steel," his mother said. "Easy to clean, in case you bleed a little. Dishwasher safe."
"They were your grandfather's," his father said. "They're a part of our family tradition."
"Thanks," Charles mumbled.
"Try them on," his mother prompted.
"Maybe later."
Charles gave each of his parents a sweater.
"I know it's not latex or leather," Charles said, "but they're very itchy."
"Oh," his mother said weakly, "they seem very nice."
After that particular Christmas, he didn't go home as often. It was simply too awkward. They were all so different.
During his second year of university, Charles got a phone call from his mother.
"It's your father," she said. "He's in the hospital. It's quite serious."
"Auto-erotic asphyxiation?" Charles asked.
"Good guess," his mother said. "Breath play. Your father always was a sucker for strangulation. I guess I overdid it a little."
Charles took the bus home for the weekend. His dad was in a hospital bed, in pain, refusing medication, and seemingly happy. It made no sense to Charles at all.
"Son," his dad said from the hospital bed, "your mother and I probably should have told you this a long time ago."
"We didn't want you to feel weird, or unwanted," his mom said.
"What is it?" Charles asked.
"You're adopted."
Charles let the information soak in for a moment. It made sense. His parents hit him and said it was about love. For him it was just hitting. When they asked him to hit them, it was just pointless cruelty. He never understood, and now it was clear why. He just wasn't wired that way.
"It explains a lot," Charles said, flatly.
"We do love you, in our way," his mother said, and slapped him across the face.
Charles rubbed his burning cheek. He briefly toyed with the idea of punching his father and kicking his mother. These were the sort of gestures they would appreciate, as signs of affection. But he couldn't do it. He wasn't that person.
"I know you guys care," Charles said. "I'm glad you're okay, dad. Be more careful next time."
"You know your old man," he said. "When I get knocked off the horse, I get back on again." And he mimed being strangled and stuck out his tongue.
For the rest of the visit, they stood there making awkward small talk.
Charles rode the bus back to university. As he stared out the window, he thought about his parents and how he was raised. It seemed he would have to resign himself to the idea that he and his parents spoke a different language -- one that Charles would never understand. He'd do his best to avoid their slaps and punches, without striking back. That way, he could stay true to his own nature.
With a start, he realized that so long as he maintained a relationship with his parents, he was enduring a form of masochism. Knowing his mom and dad meant knowing pain.
The Caboose and The Local Chicken
My two brothers and I are in the caboose of the train. It's going very slowly, almost stopped. When I look out the window, I see we're in more of a subway train than a real train, underground in some kind of tunnel. And our car is no longer attached to the main train. They've left us behind.
I put my hand out the window, and by pushing the walls, I get our caboose moving along the track. Doing this, we catch up to a train and connect to it. Phew. We're moving again.
Only we start talking to other passengers and discover this train is going to a different place than where our original train was headed. We were going out west, to Edmonton or somewhere like that. This train is headed north. Everyone is going to a skiing resort there.
Well, maybe we could stay at the skiing resort.
"Nah, you don't want to do that," say the other passengers. "There's nothing up north but skiing. And you guys don't even have winter clothes."
Damn it. Maybe I shouldn't have pushed the train along like that. Maybe they disconnected us from the main train for a perfectly good reason.
So we get off the train at the next subway stop, making sure we all have our bus transfers. I tell a security guard I see about the caboose being attached to the wrong train. It's quite possible there are passengers in that caboose who have no idea they're headed to the wrong destination.
The female security guard immediately radios this to headquarters.
"Did you have something to do with all this confusion?" she then asks me.
I think about it. Well, I did push the caboose along and connect it to a new train. But that doesn't make sense. It's not possible. So it must not have happened that way.
"No, I didn't have anything to do with it," I tell her.
My brothers, my parents, my partner Michelle, (or some weird shape shifting version of all these people) and I stand on the platform, waiting for a train to our proper destination. Only then I notice that all the trains are lit up red on the schedule board. Apparently there's some alarm test going on, and so all trains are stopped. Crowds of annoyed people mill around us.
"We may as well find a hotel," says my mother. Or Michelle. "It could be hours. Or even days."
"That's ridiculous," I say. "For all we know, it could be five minutes. We should wait."
We all climb into what might be an automobile on the train tracks. Or maybe the caboose again. As we sit there, we see police officers with rifles walking down the tracks. They look like a posse on the hunt for an escaped convict. And they seem to be looking under trains. The sight of them freaks me out and I get out of our car.
"Oh, that's right," my mother says. "The alert is part of an investigation of a terrorist plot. I forgot. And if we see police like this, we're supposed to stop, raise our hands over our heads, and wait for them to pass."
I start to raise my hands over my head, and the policemen see me do this, laugh, and keep walking. I lower my half raised hands. I was the only one who raised his hands.
At this point, I realize I am standing on top of a large boulder that is half on the train tracks, right next to our car. That's weird, I think. There couldn't possibly be a boulder on the train tracks. It would derail a train. Looking at it more closely, I realize it's a giant lizard the size of a horse. But judging by the flies around its head, its dead.
That's when it stands up and starts walking around. This freaks me out and I back away from it. The lizard starts stumbling around.
"I see you found one of our local chickens," laughs one of the police officers from a distance, as he keeps walking away. This lizard-thing is part of the local fauna, evidently. What city are we in anyway?
At this point, our family's pet T-Rex arrives on the scene. He's very irrational and can talk.
"I can count to ten but I'm not sure that I want to," he says, and as he says it I realize he has ten arrows all shot through the bottom of his jaw. He looks somewhat like a saint that has been martyred, except he doesn't appear to be hurt.
This T-Rex, I think, is my own uncontrollable rage.
The T-Rex comes very close to me, and even though he's a family pet, I have to push up on his bottom jaw to prevent him from eating me. Mind you, I'm not sure he wants to eat me.
I'm standing at the hood of the car. The T-Rex is coming at me from the right. And now the other dinosaur -- the "local chicken" -- is coming at me from the left. For some reason I find the local chicken more frightening than the T-Rex.
"Look," I say to the T-Rex, "can you eat that other dinosaur already, before he attacks me?"
The T-Rex seems dazed, confused, and babbles endlessly. I'm not at all sure he's going to help me out.
It sucks being stuck between two demented dinosaurs, but the situation seems more awkward and annoying than genuinely dangerous. I have some nervousness, but nothing too serious.
I put my hand out the window, and by pushing the walls, I get our caboose moving along the track. Doing this, we catch up to a train and connect to it. Phew. We're moving again.
Only we start talking to other passengers and discover this train is going to a different place than where our original train was headed. We were going out west, to Edmonton or somewhere like that. This train is headed north. Everyone is going to a skiing resort there.
Well, maybe we could stay at the skiing resort.
"Nah, you don't want to do that," say the other passengers. "There's nothing up north but skiing. And you guys don't even have winter clothes."
Damn it. Maybe I shouldn't have pushed the train along like that. Maybe they disconnected us from the main train for a perfectly good reason.
So we get off the train at the next subway stop, making sure we all have our bus transfers. I tell a security guard I see about the caboose being attached to the wrong train. It's quite possible there are passengers in that caboose who have no idea they're headed to the wrong destination.
The female security guard immediately radios this to headquarters.
"Did you have something to do with all this confusion?" she then asks me.
I think about it. Well, I did push the caboose along and connect it to a new train. But that doesn't make sense. It's not possible. So it must not have happened that way.
"No, I didn't have anything to do with it," I tell her.
My brothers, my parents, my partner Michelle, (or some weird shape shifting version of all these people) and I stand on the platform, waiting for a train to our proper destination. Only then I notice that all the trains are lit up red on the schedule board. Apparently there's some alarm test going on, and so all trains are stopped. Crowds of annoyed people mill around us.
"We may as well find a hotel," says my mother. Or Michelle. "It could be hours. Or even days."
"That's ridiculous," I say. "For all we know, it could be five minutes. We should wait."
We all climb into what might be an automobile on the train tracks. Or maybe the caboose again. As we sit there, we see police officers with rifles walking down the tracks. They look like a posse on the hunt for an escaped convict. And they seem to be looking under trains. The sight of them freaks me out and I get out of our car.
"Oh, that's right," my mother says. "The alert is part of an investigation of a terrorist plot. I forgot. And if we see police like this, we're supposed to stop, raise our hands over our heads, and wait for them to pass."
I start to raise my hands over my head, and the policemen see me do this, laugh, and keep walking. I lower my half raised hands. I was the only one who raised his hands.
At this point, I realize I am standing on top of a large boulder that is half on the train tracks, right next to our car. That's weird, I think. There couldn't possibly be a boulder on the train tracks. It would derail a train. Looking at it more closely, I realize it's a giant lizard the size of a horse. But judging by the flies around its head, its dead.
That's when it stands up and starts walking around. This freaks me out and I back away from it. The lizard starts stumbling around.
"I see you found one of our local chickens," laughs one of the police officers from a distance, as he keeps walking away. This lizard-thing is part of the local fauna, evidently. What city are we in anyway?
At this point, our family's pet T-Rex arrives on the scene. He's very irrational and can talk.
"I can count to ten but I'm not sure that I want to," he says, and as he says it I realize he has ten arrows all shot through the bottom of his jaw. He looks somewhat like a saint that has been martyred, except he doesn't appear to be hurt.
This T-Rex, I think, is my own uncontrollable rage.
The T-Rex comes very close to me, and even though he's a family pet, I have to push up on his bottom jaw to prevent him from eating me. Mind you, I'm not sure he wants to eat me.
I'm standing at the hood of the car. The T-Rex is coming at me from the right. And now the other dinosaur -- the "local chicken" -- is coming at me from the left. For some reason I find the local chicken more frightening than the T-Rex.
"Look," I say to the T-Rex, "can you eat that other dinosaur already, before he attacks me?"
The T-Rex seems dazed, confused, and babbles endlessly. I'm not at all sure he's going to help me out.
It sucks being stuck between two demented dinosaurs, but the situation seems more awkward and annoying than genuinely dangerous. I have some nervousness, but nothing too serious.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Portrait Gallery Protest: response
I sent a portrait to MP James Moore. After not receiving any word for a long, long time, I sent another message to Moore's staff, and got some more run-around. The following scanned letter showed up in my email box yesterday.
James Moore's Response, shrunk a little to fit this website.
The key words are:
"Unfortunately, I never received the portrait you sent me last year."
The rest of his response is filler, and ignores almost everything in my letter. As most politicians know, don't answer the question they asked, answer the question you wish they asked.
Hence my big questions go unanswered:
"To those of us outside the process, this looks corrupt, incompetent, and bizarre. What is going on? What are you politicians doing? Is there any way to bring you all to your senses? Can I help in some way?"
It's also interesting that the response letter makes no promise of there ever being a permanent location for the portraits. Instead, the filler says how wonderful it is that this is a resource traveling all over Canada, and "web-based applications" are expected. I find this strange, as I distinctly recall Moore saying on CBC radio that of course everyone wants a permanent gallery for the art, and that idea is very much on the table. Have things changed?
It's really tempting to call bullshit on Moore never receiving my portrait. I mailed the tube from the Sparks Street Post Office. It's literally across the street from Parliament Hill. I could have walked across the street and just handed it to security.
Second, how do staffers lose a BIG BLACK TUBE WITH STEEL ENDS?
Of course, it is possible it got lost. Sure. Stranger things have happened.
Mind you, if you don't want to deal with some crazy artist mailing you a portrait, "losing" it is a great strategy.
I wonder if his staff will somehow manage to lose the next portrait I mail them?
James Moore's Response, shrunk a little to fit this website.
The key words are:
"Unfortunately, I never received the portrait you sent me last year."
The rest of his response is filler, and ignores almost everything in my letter. As most politicians know, don't answer the question they asked, answer the question you wish they asked.
Hence my big questions go unanswered:
"To those of us outside the process, this looks corrupt, incompetent, and bizarre. What is going on? What are you politicians doing? Is there any way to bring you all to your senses? Can I help in some way?"
It's also interesting that the response letter makes no promise of there ever being a permanent location for the portraits. Instead, the filler says how wonderful it is that this is a resource traveling all over Canada, and "web-based applications" are expected. I find this strange, as I distinctly recall Moore saying on CBC radio that of course everyone wants a permanent gallery for the art, and that idea is very much on the table. Have things changed?
It's really tempting to call bullshit on Moore never receiving my portrait. I mailed the tube from the Sparks Street Post Office. It's literally across the street from Parliament Hill. I could have walked across the street and just handed it to security.
Second, how do staffers lose a BIG BLACK TUBE WITH STEEL ENDS?
Of course, it is possible it got lost. Sure. Stranger things have happened.
Mind you, if you don't want to deal with some crazy artist mailing you a portrait, "losing" it is a great strategy.
I wonder if his staff will somehow manage to lose the next portrait I mail them?
Monday, October 26, 2009
The Politics of Pain
[Derek and Charles run into each other on the corner of a sidewalk. After some small talk...]
Charles, in mid-sentence: ...and that’s why I think...
[Derek winces in pain, and Charles stops talking for a second.]
Charles: Derek, are you okay?
Derek: Yeah, it's... my balls.
Charles: Your balls?
Derek: Yeah, they just hurt sometimes. It's a medical condition -- Spontaneous Testicular Agony, or STA. Nothing anyone can do about it. Makes it a little tough to walk, now and then. The pain comes and goes. It's not an uncommon condition. Apparently 15% of men get it at some time in their life. There's not a lot of research into it, but... You know... It's not lethal, so I guess people are researching cancer and AIDS instead.
Charles: That's terrible! I wish there was something I could do.
Derek: Well, that's kind of you, Charles... But, like I said, you can't do anything. No one can. There’s no known cure.
[A slight pause. Suddenly, Charles gets an idea.]
Charles: Maybe I can help!
[Charles punches himself in the balls.]
Derek, horrified: What did you do that for?
Charles: Solidarity.
[Charles punches himself in the balls again.]
Derek, concerned: Stop it! Punching yourself doesn't help me. Cut it out.
Charles: I just want to demonstrate that I understand what you're going through. You see, in politics it's important for people to band together, fighting for a common cause and... Hang on, my balls aren't hurting enough.
[Charles punches himself again.]
[Some people -- men and women in business suits walk by. Charles yells at them.]
Charles: People in pain here! You're just ignoring them! FTA, Frequent Testicular Ache, you assholes! Don't ignore the truth! When will you all wake up?
[And he slaps his balls for good measure. The people look startled for a moment, then quickly walk by.]
Charles, shaking his head: Did you see those idiots, ignoring us? Ignoring the plight of FTA? It makes me sick.
Derek: Okay, first -- it's STA -- Spontaneous Testicular Agony. And look... I'm in pain because of my condition. I don't punch myself in the balls. I'm just suffering. I don't want to suffer. I want to be free from pain. You ARE free from pain, but you're deliberately hurting yourself. Can you see how I'd find that a little insulting?
Charles: I don't understand.
[He punches himself in the balls again.]
Derek: You don't have to punch yourself in the balls to help me. In fact, if you're not in pain, you're in a better position to help me. When you're in pain, you're doubled over and moaning. If you're not in pain, you can actually do stuff. Petition the government, or help me carry groceries, or whatever. Understand?
[Charles shakes his head and punches himself in the balls again.]
Charles, in pain, the last one was a little too hard: Solidarity. Jeeze... Ow...
[Derek, confused, takes a few steps back. What is with this guy? He looks at Charles more closely, as though inspecting him for signs of madness. Looking down, Derek notices for the first time that there's a bear trap closed around Charles' left foot. Based on the colour of the wound and the way the blood is all dried, the bear trap has been on the foot for a long time. And it obviously hurts. Clearly Charles has been walking around with this massive wound and trap for some time.]
Derek, flatly: I just noticed... You have a bear trap on your left foot.
Charles, reluctantly: Yeah, I do.
Derek: Does it hurt?
Charles: No, not really. [pause] Well, maybe a little. [pause] Quite a lot, actually, now that you mention it.
Derek: Shouldn't you get it looked at, or something?
Charles: No, no, no. It's not a big deal.
[And then he punches himself in the balls again.]
Derek: Wait. I don’t understand. You see me in pain. So you want to be part of the STA cause -- whatever that means. So now you're punching yourself in the groin. Meanwhile, you have this bear trap on your foot. Shouldn't you be dealing with your own pain, instead of punching your balls?
Charles: Oh, the bear trap is no big deal. Sure, I limp a little. Yeah, my left foot stinks of rot and stuff. But it's not as painful as punching myself in the nuts.
Derek: It looks real bad. I bet if a doctor fixed it up, you could get better, not be in pain.
Charles: You don't understand. It's not important.
Derek: Why?
Charles: It's just my pain. It's not interesting. It's not part of a political cause, like your pain. There are hundreds of thousands of men out there with FTA...
Derek, correcting him: STA.
Charles, quickly: STA -- something could be done about it. Nothing can be done about my stupid pain.
Derek: Well, someone could take the trap off your foot.
Charles: No, no. You're missing the point.
Derek: What? Are you afraid of your own pain, of dealing with it? Is that it? Is that why you're focusing on my STA and ignoring your own suffering?
Charles rolls his eyes and shakes his head: Now, listen. You don't get it at all. You're starting to become one of those people who victimizes themselves. Your balls hurt, I'm trying to help you, and you're pushing me away.
Derek: I'm victimizing myself? You keep punching yourself in the balls!
Charles: I'm doing that to help you!
[He punches himself again.]
Derek: How does that help me?
Charles sighs: You really don't get it. I thought you'd be more enlightened about this, because of your... See, your pain is... It's part of a social problem. By embracing your pain, I can better understand it and better help you. It's political.
Derek: Your being doubled over in agony is political?
Charles: Exactly.
Derek: Why doesn't the pain of your foot matter?
Charles: It just doesn't.
Derek: And your pain isn't political?
Charles: Right! Now you get it.
[Pause. Derek stares at Charles for a while.]
Derek: I'm going to take the trap off your foot.
Charles, scared: No!
[There is a brief struggle. Derek tries to pry the trap off but Charles pushes him away. Derek renews his efforts, knocks Charles to the sidewalk. The two of them struggle on the ground.]
Charles: No! Quit it! Stop!
Derek, triumphantly: There!
[The trap clatters to the ground, and Derek kicks it away.]
Charles: You bastard! What did you do that for?
[Derek and Charles slowly get to their feet.]
Derek: You were in pain. I thought I'd help you.
Charles: And how does that help me, exactly?
Derek, annoyed: You had a trap on your leg. I took it off. What did you expect me to do? Go out, buy a trap, snap it closed on my left foot, in solidarity?
Charles: Well, that certainly would have made more sense!
Derek, in disbelief: What?
Charles: If you had a trap on your foot too, you'd be showing some understanding of my suffering. Empathy. A bond. A political movement could rise up out of that! Instead, you just yanked the trap off my leg!
Derek: You really believe this nonsense?
Charles: It's not nonsense. You just don't understand how politics works.
Derek, with finality: You're a lunatic.
[Derek walks off]
Charles, yelling after him: That's right! Run away from the man trying to help you with your PTA! You coward! Self-victimizing son of a bitch! Don't you want PTA to be cured?
Derek, from a distance: STA! STA!
Charles: STA! That's what I said! I tried to help you, and what do you do? Knock me down and take the bear trap off my leg! You jerk! You idiot! You political know-nothing!
[Derek is long gone. Charles whimpers a little, feels his leg. He limps over to where Derek threw the trap on the ground, picks it up. He looks it over. With a grunt he pries it open, then he snaps it closed on his leg with a clang and a crunch.]
Charles: Ah. That's better.
END.
Charles, in mid-sentence: ...and that’s why I think...
[Derek winces in pain, and Charles stops talking for a second.]
Charles: Derek, are you okay?
Derek: Yeah, it's... my balls.
Charles: Your balls?
Derek: Yeah, they just hurt sometimes. It's a medical condition -- Spontaneous Testicular Agony, or STA. Nothing anyone can do about it. Makes it a little tough to walk, now and then. The pain comes and goes. It's not an uncommon condition. Apparently 15% of men get it at some time in their life. There's not a lot of research into it, but... You know... It's not lethal, so I guess people are researching cancer and AIDS instead.
Charles: That's terrible! I wish there was something I could do.
Derek: Well, that's kind of you, Charles... But, like I said, you can't do anything. No one can. There’s no known cure.
[A slight pause. Suddenly, Charles gets an idea.]
Charles: Maybe I can help!
[Charles punches himself in the balls.]
Derek, horrified: What did you do that for?
Charles: Solidarity.
[Charles punches himself in the balls again.]
Derek, concerned: Stop it! Punching yourself doesn't help me. Cut it out.
Charles: I just want to demonstrate that I understand what you're going through. You see, in politics it's important for people to band together, fighting for a common cause and... Hang on, my balls aren't hurting enough.
[Charles punches himself again.]
[Some people -- men and women in business suits walk by. Charles yells at them.]
Charles: People in pain here! You're just ignoring them! FTA, Frequent Testicular Ache, you assholes! Don't ignore the truth! When will you all wake up?
[And he slaps his balls for good measure. The people look startled for a moment, then quickly walk by.]
Charles, shaking his head: Did you see those idiots, ignoring us? Ignoring the plight of FTA? It makes me sick.
Derek: Okay, first -- it's STA -- Spontaneous Testicular Agony. And look... I'm in pain because of my condition. I don't punch myself in the balls. I'm just suffering. I don't want to suffer. I want to be free from pain. You ARE free from pain, but you're deliberately hurting yourself. Can you see how I'd find that a little insulting?
Charles: I don't understand.
[He punches himself in the balls again.]
Derek: You don't have to punch yourself in the balls to help me. In fact, if you're not in pain, you're in a better position to help me. When you're in pain, you're doubled over and moaning. If you're not in pain, you can actually do stuff. Petition the government, or help me carry groceries, or whatever. Understand?
[Charles shakes his head and punches himself in the balls again.]
Charles, in pain, the last one was a little too hard: Solidarity. Jeeze... Ow...
[Derek, confused, takes a few steps back. What is with this guy? He looks at Charles more closely, as though inspecting him for signs of madness. Looking down, Derek notices for the first time that there's a bear trap closed around Charles' left foot. Based on the colour of the wound and the way the blood is all dried, the bear trap has been on the foot for a long time. And it obviously hurts. Clearly Charles has been walking around with this massive wound and trap for some time.]
Derek, flatly: I just noticed... You have a bear trap on your left foot.
Charles, reluctantly: Yeah, I do.
Derek: Does it hurt?
Charles: No, not really. [pause] Well, maybe a little. [pause] Quite a lot, actually, now that you mention it.
Derek: Shouldn't you get it looked at, or something?
Charles: No, no, no. It's not a big deal.
[And then he punches himself in the balls again.]
Derek: Wait. I don’t understand. You see me in pain. So you want to be part of the STA cause -- whatever that means. So now you're punching yourself in the groin. Meanwhile, you have this bear trap on your foot. Shouldn't you be dealing with your own pain, instead of punching your balls?
Charles: Oh, the bear trap is no big deal. Sure, I limp a little. Yeah, my left foot stinks of rot and stuff. But it's not as painful as punching myself in the nuts.
Derek: It looks real bad. I bet if a doctor fixed it up, you could get better, not be in pain.
Charles: You don't understand. It's not important.
Derek: Why?
Charles: It's just my pain. It's not interesting. It's not part of a political cause, like your pain. There are hundreds of thousands of men out there with FTA...
Derek, correcting him: STA.
Charles, quickly: STA -- something could be done about it. Nothing can be done about my stupid pain.
Derek: Well, someone could take the trap off your foot.
Charles: No, no. You're missing the point.
Derek: What? Are you afraid of your own pain, of dealing with it? Is that it? Is that why you're focusing on my STA and ignoring your own suffering?
Charles rolls his eyes and shakes his head: Now, listen. You don't get it at all. You're starting to become one of those people who victimizes themselves. Your balls hurt, I'm trying to help you, and you're pushing me away.
Derek: I'm victimizing myself? You keep punching yourself in the balls!
Charles: I'm doing that to help you!
[He punches himself again.]
Derek: How does that help me?
Charles sighs: You really don't get it. I thought you'd be more enlightened about this, because of your... See, your pain is... It's part of a social problem. By embracing your pain, I can better understand it and better help you. It's political.
Derek: Your being doubled over in agony is political?
Charles: Exactly.
Derek: Why doesn't the pain of your foot matter?
Charles: It just doesn't.
Derek: And your pain isn't political?
Charles: Right! Now you get it.
[Pause. Derek stares at Charles for a while.]
Derek: I'm going to take the trap off your foot.
Charles, scared: No!
[There is a brief struggle. Derek tries to pry the trap off but Charles pushes him away. Derek renews his efforts, knocks Charles to the sidewalk. The two of them struggle on the ground.]
Charles: No! Quit it! Stop!
Derek, triumphantly: There!
[The trap clatters to the ground, and Derek kicks it away.]
Charles: You bastard! What did you do that for?
[Derek and Charles slowly get to their feet.]
Derek: You were in pain. I thought I'd help you.
Charles: And how does that help me, exactly?
Derek, annoyed: You had a trap on your leg. I took it off. What did you expect me to do? Go out, buy a trap, snap it closed on my left foot, in solidarity?
Charles: Well, that certainly would have made more sense!
Derek, in disbelief: What?
Charles: If you had a trap on your foot too, you'd be showing some understanding of my suffering. Empathy. A bond. A political movement could rise up out of that! Instead, you just yanked the trap off my leg!
Derek: You really believe this nonsense?
Charles: It's not nonsense. You just don't understand how politics works.
Derek, with finality: You're a lunatic.
[Derek walks off]
Charles, yelling after him: That's right! Run away from the man trying to help you with your PTA! You coward! Self-victimizing son of a bitch! Don't you want PTA to be cured?
Derek, from a distance: STA! STA!
Charles: STA! That's what I said! I tried to help you, and what do you do? Knock me down and take the bear trap off my leg! You jerk! You idiot! You political know-nothing!
[Derek is long gone. Charles whimpers a little, feels his leg. He limps over to where Derek threw the trap on the ground, picks it up. He looks it over. With a grunt he pries it open, then he snaps it closed on his leg with a clang and a crunch.]
Charles: Ah. That's better.
END.
Friday, October 23, 2009
My Beard Is Magic
I had a cold and decided not to shave. As my facial hair grew, I became more committed to the cause. Now, officially, I'm growing a beard. I got a permit from the City of Ottawa and everything.
You think it's easy, growing a beard? You think just anyone can do it? Facial hair is hard work. Beards don't just grow themselves.
"It must be nice," a coworker named Natasha said to me. "Growing a beard. It keeps your face warm. I was just outside in the cold and my cheeks hurt."
"You should grow a beard too," I told her.
She looked at me, blinking. "I can't."
"And you never will with that kind of attitude."
Confused, she walked away.
The hardest part of growing a beard, so far, is the advice I'm always getting. Everyone who has a beard -- or just knows someone with a beard -- wants to help guide me through the experience.
"Shave the part on your neck. It gets itchy."
"Be sure to trim your moustache. That can get kind of gross when it hangs down over your lip."
"Comb it. You don't want food and crap in it."
"Be careful when you get a cold. Snot in a beard? Disgusting."
"If you shampoo it regularly, it's easier to get through the itchy stage when it's first growing in."
The only useful advice came from a guy named Doug. I told him how everyone is bombarding me with grooming tips, and he laughed.
"I grew my beard out of laziness," Doug said. "Forget shaving the neck. Forget shaping the beard. If you have some kind of important social engagement coming up, get it trimmed so you look vaguely presentable. But the whole point of growing a beard is not having to shave in the morning."
Looking at Doug, you'd never guess his philosophy. His beard is neat, graying, and very presentable. Yet at heart, he is a slacker.
I've totally adopted Doug's beard philosophy. A beard is manly laziness. Being furry has cut five minutes off getting ready in the morning. That's five more minutes of pointlessly surfing the Internet before running out the door to get to work. You can't put a price tag on that.
Laziness is key for me. But a lot of guys make strange mystical statements about their beards.
"It's manliness," Andrew told me. "It's authority. It's a symbol of patriarchy and power."
And it's a way for Andrew to hide his blotchy skin.
All the same, Andrew may have a point, though. Consider all the dictators throughout history. Who would have taken Hitler or Stalin seriously, if they had no moustaches? Would Sadam Hussein have had any power if his face was chilly? What about Che Guevara and other revolutionary leaders? And what about Jack Layton? Clearly, if you're male and you're going to be a leader, you need hair on your face.
My beard is multi-coloured. If you look closely, you can see the individual hairs are various colours: blond, black, brown, red, and gray. All the same, people tell me the beard suits me.
"It slims your face," one woman said.
"It makes you look like a professor," another woman told me.
And that's another weird thing -- beards are part of the intellectual costume. I'm not sure why. Are thinkers simply too busy pondering the universe to pick up a razor? Can you be taken seriously as a male philosopher if you're not bearded?
If you want to be evolutionary about it, beards are a secondary sexual characteristic, and indicate a man is mature and fertile. A beard is pubic hair you can show in public without getting arrested. It's sexual.
"They're a turn on," Dawn told me frankly. "A hairy man is a sexy man."
With all of these things in mind, I confronted my partner Michelle with some specific questions about beards.
"No," she flatly told me, "your beard is not magic. And no, it doesn't make me want to obey your commands. You wish."
And then she just stared at me like I was a crazy person.
Of course my beard is only three weeks old. Maybe it needs to be more developed. Then I'll be able to control the minds of women, amass crowds of loyal followers, and become dictator of a small European country.
I have the beard.
You think it's easy, growing a beard? You think just anyone can do it? Facial hair is hard work. Beards don't just grow themselves.
"It must be nice," a coworker named Natasha said to me. "Growing a beard. It keeps your face warm. I was just outside in the cold and my cheeks hurt."
"You should grow a beard too," I told her.
She looked at me, blinking. "I can't."
"And you never will with that kind of attitude."
Confused, she walked away.
The hardest part of growing a beard, so far, is the advice I'm always getting. Everyone who has a beard -- or just knows someone with a beard -- wants to help guide me through the experience.
"Shave the part on your neck. It gets itchy."
"Be sure to trim your moustache. That can get kind of gross when it hangs down over your lip."
"Comb it. You don't want food and crap in it."
"Be careful when you get a cold. Snot in a beard? Disgusting."
"If you shampoo it regularly, it's easier to get through the itchy stage when it's first growing in."
The only useful advice came from a guy named Doug. I told him how everyone is bombarding me with grooming tips, and he laughed.
"I grew my beard out of laziness," Doug said. "Forget shaving the neck. Forget shaping the beard. If you have some kind of important social engagement coming up, get it trimmed so you look vaguely presentable. But the whole point of growing a beard is not having to shave in the morning."
Looking at Doug, you'd never guess his philosophy. His beard is neat, graying, and very presentable. Yet at heart, he is a slacker.
I've totally adopted Doug's beard philosophy. A beard is manly laziness. Being furry has cut five minutes off getting ready in the morning. That's five more minutes of pointlessly surfing the Internet before running out the door to get to work. You can't put a price tag on that.
Laziness is key for me. But a lot of guys make strange mystical statements about their beards.
"It's manliness," Andrew told me. "It's authority. It's a symbol of patriarchy and power."
And it's a way for Andrew to hide his blotchy skin.
All the same, Andrew may have a point, though. Consider all the dictators throughout history. Who would have taken Hitler or Stalin seriously, if they had no moustaches? Would Sadam Hussein have had any power if his face was chilly? What about Che Guevara and other revolutionary leaders? And what about Jack Layton? Clearly, if you're male and you're going to be a leader, you need hair on your face.
My beard is multi-coloured. If you look closely, you can see the individual hairs are various colours: blond, black, brown, red, and gray. All the same, people tell me the beard suits me.
"It slims your face," one woman said.
"It makes you look like a professor," another woman told me.
And that's another weird thing -- beards are part of the intellectual costume. I'm not sure why. Are thinkers simply too busy pondering the universe to pick up a razor? Can you be taken seriously as a male philosopher if you're not bearded?
If you want to be evolutionary about it, beards are a secondary sexual characteristic, and indicate a man is mature and fertile. A beard is pubic hair you can show in public without getting arrested. It's sexual.
"They're a turn on," Dawn told me frankly. "A hairy man is a sexy man."
With all of these things in mind, I confronted my partner Michelle with some specific questions about beards.
"No," she flatly told me, "your beard is not magic. And no, it doesn't make me want to obey your commands. You wish."
And then she just stared at me like I was a crazy person.
Of course my beard is only three weeks old. Maybe it needs to be more developed. Then I'll be able to control the minds of women, amass crowds of loyal followers, and become dictator of a small European country.
I have the beard.
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