And When You're Holding Me, We Make A Pair Of Parentheses, There's Plenty Space To Encase, Whatever Weird Way My Mind Goes

--"Parentheses", The Blow

I was watching How I Met Your Mother tonight like I do every Monday night. The aspect of the show--aside from NPH, of course (he rocks)--is the fact that so many of the plot lines remind me of silly stunts I've tried or wacky conversations I've held. For instance, tonight's episode revolved around the epic quest to find Marshall's "Perfect" Burger. This wasn't just any ordinary burger, it was the burger that he had his first week in New York when he was still unsure about his decision to move there. This was the burger that reassured him that there were good experiences to be had in the city. This was the burger that sold him on the concept that there were people, places, and, yes, foods that couldn't be had back in Minnesota, where he originated.

The way he described the burger was a food critic's sonnet, an ode to the confluence of perfect ingredients and perfect preparation. I'm always taken in by good reviews of food. By the end of Marshall's description I wanted a taste of that burger. Indeed, there are many days here where I'll get the sudden urge to go find the best pizza in the L.A. area (Petrillo's in Rosemead). Or find the best breakfast place in the South Bay (Uncle Bill's Pancake House). And, yes, there even has been one day when I went looking for the lone Sonic Burger in Los Angeles County (off of the 91 East, exit Lemon).

However, the quest seemingly I've been on all my life is for the place where the serve what I call "The Holy Grail of Milkshakes."


now and then you can bend,
it's okay to lean over my way

I'm sure I've told the story before here--how I went to D.C. in sixth grade with my school, how on one of those days we visited Thomas Jefferson's estate and were then let loose in pairs into the nearby town, and how there I found a tiny drugstore with fountain shop in the back which served the absolute best vanilla milkshake I've ever had. We're talking thirty minutes to make, ice cream handmade in the back, milk measured out precisely, and a closely guarded technique to blend the actual shake. I am not lying when I say I told everyone on that bus about that milkshake when it was time to go... and I've been telling everyone who knows me about that place. It isn't just the end-all be-all of milkshakes; it's about the only perfect food I've ever had. Sure, I've had a lot of best this or that in this or that city, but I've never had anything else I could call perfect.

In the show, unlike a lot of people, Marshall's wife and friends don't mock him for obsessiveness. In fact, they honor his fastidiousness by always agreeing to accompany on his wild goose chases. That's like my friends. I remember in high school how I would take Dan and Peter to this pharmacy or that restaurant because I got a tip that they had good milkshakes there. Later, as I was able to visit more cities, I always hunted down wherever the locals or where the local newspaper said the best ice cream or milkshakes could be had. I found some decent places. J.P. Lick's in Boston has amazingly awesome ice cream, for one. But, alas and alack, I've never found another thirty-minute milkshake in any other city. Nowhere comes close.

Now, sixth grade, I was--what--eleven. That means it's been nineteen years I've been searching for a shake I had only the one time. Yet in my mind I can still distinctly remember the whole experience. I can reminisce about each and every flavor. I can recall every sweet drop of heavenly goodness. Time hasn't chipped away at the opulence, the decadence, the savory, sublime glass of goodness that was that milkshake.

However, what's even more astounding for me is that I'll have put it out of my mind for a few months or even a few years. Then one afternoon I'll get a call out of the blue from one of my friends telling me that they happened upon the quaintest little malt shop/pharmacy/ice cream parlor. Not only do they humor me in my idiosyncrasies, but they indulge me in my belief that I haven't built up the memory in my head, that every last detail I possess regarding the experience is unexaggerated.

Sometime I don't know which I cherish more, the experience itself or the idea that experience meant so much to me that others are willing to assist me in my impossible task of reliving that experience.

It's a crazy pipe dream to think that I'll put lips to that particular glass again.

What's even crazier is the fact I have so many dear people doing their best to see that dream come true.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

And If You Look, You Look Through Me, And When You Talk, You Talk At Me, And When I Touch You, You Don't Feel A Thing

--"Stay (Faraway, So Close!)", U2

I took my friend Jeff out for his birthday dinner tonight. Unlike most people I go eat with, we've never had one of those understandings where he'll pick up one check and I'll pick up the next. It's always been a situation where everyone pays for their own items to avoid any misunderstandings. The only exception is when one of our birthdays rolls around. That's the one time where it's okay I take him out and on mine, when it's okay for him to pay for the meal. I guess you could say it's one of our unspoken rules.

Another unspoken rule, which I assumed most people adhered to, was the idea that conversations are miniature exercises in diplomacy. Speaking with Jeff tonight--about baseball, about different restaurants, about the sorry state of affairs at our respective workplaces--I was reminded how nice it is to speak to someone in person who knows how to hold a conversation. With the obvious exception of the usual SFoM gang, I hadn't really noticed I've been holding court with a lot of individuals who don't have the slightest inkling how to have a proper discussion. I know I have a lot foibles and that I like certain criteria in my life "just so" but it took speaking to someone who I've managed to get along with for the last three years to see how some people in my life just don't know how to talk.

I don't know why I feel the need to explain this but it's gotten to the point where it's almost a pet peeve with me. There are certain folk who I have the misfortune to be compelled to stay in contact with who don't perceive the natural dynamic of a conversational relationship. I'll start a topic, after hearing him drone on about something he wanted to talk about for ten or fifteen minutes, and rather than get even a half-hearted attempt at responding in kind, he'll inevitably proceed to return back to the original conversation. Worse yet, this individual has the mind-numbing habit of becoming defensive whenever I mention any one of my favorites--be it a piece of entertainment, a restaurant, or even something as simple as my taste in women. Yes, there's a certain latitude to jump in with your opinion on most subjects, but, goddamn it all, there's also a subtle art to realizing when you're talking too much about what you like and what you're doing, and not giving the other person the benefit of your ear.

Sometimes I can drone about a few, select subjects, but i've also had many a conversation with experienced and mature citizens of the world to know when they're dying to switch the subject. There's an ebb and flow to natural conversation that comes easily if one is paying attention to the signs. Speaking to someone is a subtle blend of both keeping them actively engaged by what you say and keeping them actively satisfied by showing them careful consideration in your listening habits. People who dominate conversations, as this aforementioned person tends to do, either is immature to not understand that sometimes silence is encouraged in conversations or is entirely disrespectful by displaying time and time again he has no patience for discourse that does not revolve around him.

All it took was one conversation with my friend Jeff to see the positive aspects of one avenue of approaching a conversation and the negative aspect of the other avenue.

Case in point, we managed to fill three hours with lively discussion during dinner.

Whereas with the guy who's beginning to fray my last nerve, I sometimes have to excuse myself because the one-sidedness to the conversation just becomes entirely overwhelming. Everyone from Breanne to DeAnn to old high school friends have told me that I have decent listening skills. However, I think even the best listener comes to a point when he realizes that his companion is only intent upon talking and never listening to him. It's at that point that the listener begins to question to himself whether or not he's necessary to the conversation.

I don't know--I guess I'm ranting, but it's a slow suffering after talking to great speakers AND listeners like Miss Lucy and Miss Epcot to have to be subjected routinely to someone who seems either not to be listening or not to be caring about anything I say. Again, I could be overreacting, but I don't think so. Tonight proves that I have yet to lose my skills at fulfilling my obligations of both paying and receiving attention with someone who knows how to talk like adults.

As I said to dozens of people over the years, I don't like being talked at. In most cases if you can't find a way to talk with me instead of at me, then you're probably not long for my continued company. There are far too many people in the world that I like talking to, to ever willingly sacrifice any of my precious time to someone I absolutely abhor talking to.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Why Do I Do The Things I Do, Sometimes I Feel Like I Am So Insecure, If I Could Learn A Thing Or Two From You, Then Popular Opinion I Could Ignore

--"Why Do I Do", Jump5

or "How Eating Burgers Caused Me To Join The A.C.L.U."...

People always talk about the angles, about the rewards of doing something. A lot of people focus their energies on a results-based philosophy, which is understandable. It's hard to argue with the merits of training your sights on the goal and never wavering from that goal. In most instances it's an admirable trait in individuals. I could stand to improve my prowess in this area of thinking myself. Far too often I let the goal slip out of perception in favor of the process, in favor of the representation of the journey. I believe if I honed in a little more on the prize at the end of the finishing I would be more keen on reeling things with a sense of urgency.

However, just as important I posit is the motivation behind why we start the journey in the first place. More often than not why a person sets out on a task isn't the why a person sees that task to its completion. Most times why we start the car has nothing to do where we end up at the end of the ride--at least that's the way it is for me. I take after my more famous friend in that respect. I jump into things for the flimsiest of reasons, often giving up halfway through because after the initial rush of adrenalin I have nothing substantial to hold my interest. I might give you the lip service of wanting to achieve something amazing or personally satisfying, but usually the carrot that dangles before me which induces me to take that first step turns out to be a false carrot.

I really am too impulsive for my own good.

----

As most of you know, I've been to Boston about a half-dozen times in my life. Yet I'm always finding new crannies to explore, places I haven't been yet, and little sections of the surrounding climes. On one such expeditions I came across possibly the best burger joint I've ever been in. Yes, I'm a big fan of places like Fuddrucker's or The Counter, where one can almost assuredly get the burger one deserves. But it isn't that often one comes across a small out-of-the-way treasure, one so-called mom-and-pop hole-in-the-wall that possibly has the best burgers that side of the Mississippi. That's what Mr. Bartley's is--a good place to get a great burger.

Well, coming out of the experience of eating at my rare find, I was in a great mood. In fact, I was in such an exuberant mood that my first thought was to get back on the T to head to the Central Library so I could blog on this very site about my discovery. I don't know if it was my being distracted or the fact that I normally don't stop at such obvious ploys for support, but as I was hurriedly heading into the Harvard Square station I was accosted by a rather nicely dressed young woman. She immediately asked if I had a few moments to spare. Good mood not withstanding, I still don't like being approached by random strangers to sign anything, to give anything, or to hear anything. It's usually not in my best interests to open myself up to possible annoyance and it's usually a policy of affairs I attempt to abide by as often as possible. That being said, she was rather nicely dressed. More to the point, she had a convincing smile... and I was in such a good mood anyway.

I decided to hear her out.

Her speech was rehearsed but natural. She stated the facts of her case (she was a volunteer for the ACLU and provided a few examples of how it had enhanced her understanding and deep-abiding love for America). She provided a number of on-going struggles that I could lend my support to as well as a number of meaningful victories the organization had spearheaded. Capitalizing on my mentioning I was from California, she told me how the recent decision to allow same-sex marriages in California was a direct result of the efforts of the ACLU. Yet the subtle way she informed me of this, by intermingling probing questions about my experience while visiting Boston ("so you come here every year? I actually go to Boston College so I could see why you'd want to come back every year.") with statements about her agenda gave the lasting impression that she wasn't just trying to collect signature and donations; she was there to recruit lifelong supporters, gave me confidence that this was a young woman who knew of what she spoke. I don't know about most gladhanding recruitment techniques, but I'm fairly certain they are not supposed to last twenty to twenty-five minutes long, as that's allows a very small pool of potential supporters to talk to.

In the end I decided to donate not so much because I was such an adamant supporter of the cause, but because I believed in her conviction to the cause. Or, more simply, I agreed to become a card-carrying member of the ACLU because I took a liking to her and the way she was so passionate about the subject. I mean--I agree with the principles of the group and it really wouldn't have taken much to get me to join after that burger, but the real motivation behind my signing on the dotted line was I wanted to do something for her for filling up half-of-an-hour of my time in such a beguiling and entertaining fashion.

That's it. I wanted to make her happy.

I could try to give you the rabble about how I'm deeply committed to the cause and that when I donate my fifty dollars a month (upped from the ten I originally signed for with her), it's because I like the fact my money is going towards initiatives I fully support. I could tell you that when I get my monthly newsletter or check their site on-line, aclu.org I re-affirm my original reasons for joining. That would be only half the story, though. That would only be the reason why I continue to support them.

The true story about why I joined in the first place was because I was happily full and a pretty girl asked me to.

----

Sometimes motivations involve all these grand ideas and utilize deeply-held convictions regarding philosophy, religion, or personal lifestyle choices. I absolutely would be loathe to fraternize with people who didn't base their decisions the majority of the time on such substantial criteria. But every once in a while, as befits my somewhat mercurial nature, I chuck all sense of rational thinking out the door and do something because it feels right or because doing it makes me feel happy.

The world has enough complex decisions for you to make. There are some decisions that aren't that life-altering or that monumental with which you could simply just go with your gut.

If I couldn't stand the ACLU I could rather easily halt my monthly donations. The hard part of doing anything for me is getting me to stop something I dislike.

The hard part for me is actually getting enough impetus to commit to something.

Without the burger and without that cute girl I'm pretty sure I would have never joined. That would have been mine and their loss.

Yes, my rationale for signing up weren't all that logical. I fully admit it was an entirely emotional decision, but I have full confidence it was the right decision. I continue to support that decision. It's like the say, you can do something right for the wrong reasons... as long as you do it.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Let's Take A Ride, And Run With The Dogs Tonight, In Suburbia, You Can't Hide, Run With The Dogs Tonight, In Suburbia

--"Suburbia (cover)", West End Girls

"What's the advantage of a small town anyway? People are always talking about small town values? How exactly do they differ from big city values?" I was asking her one day not so long ago.

"It's the community feeling, the help-your-neighbor mentality, sugar," Breanne quickly answered.

"As if people don't help each other here," I scoffed.

I heard her sigh slowly. "You just don't understand. You've never lived in that kind of environment. It's like trying to describe the moon to a fish."

I don't know how we got on the subject. It probably stemmed from all the recent political coverage and how it almost always boils down to different groups wanting to characterize the other side as being one thing or another. I've always held it odd that conservatives always point to how they're all about small town beliefs and small town ideals when I've never exactly had it clarified for me what those beliefs and ideals are. Breanne was doing her best to suss them out as best she could for me. I mean--I'm all for helping one another out, but the way their values and ideals are described it seems to encompass a lot more than being considerate and neighborly. I truly wanted to know what makes that belief system such a coveted goal to work towards. I also wanted to know why it should put them on a moral high ground when to me it just seems like common sense.

"Sierra Madre was a small town."

"Hardly, darling. You never had to hike more than a mile to get to your neighbor. Not that I'm one to talk, but I've plenty of kin who could accurately describe what small town living does to a person. It changes you. It's a whole different focus, almost like putting a lens on a camera. You see things differently."

"And do you see things so differently than me?" I asked her.

"Well, I wouldn't call Macon a small town--not like some small towns I've seen in my day."

"It has more of that small town feeling than where I'm at right now."

"Yeah, I reckon you could look at it that way."

One of the least favorite topics between us is how we grew up differently or how we were raised differently. That always transitions into a conversation about how our values differ, which in turn leads to some type of argument why the other one can't be just a little different, just a little bit better, just a little bit more like him or her. I acknowledge that people are born and raised differently. I even acknowledge that people have differing viewpoints, but that doesn't necessitate a point-by-point checklist of just how different two people are. Whenever possible, I like to keep conversations centered around subjects that I know myself and my companion have in common. I'm not one to facilitate dissent even if it is under the auspices of a friendly debate. I have enough problems getting along with people normally to engage in a conversation that starts off with difference of opinion. Miss Little Chipper has felt this "rule" most unequivocally; there are whole conversations I've had with her where I refuse to acknowledge she was born anything but a Catholic schoolgirl in Southern California who just happened to move to the South. It's much easier for me to converse with her believing that we share a similar background than to completely wrap my head around the idea that her upbringing is ten degrees this side of alien to me. Most of the time we get along so swimmingly that I don't like to dwell on the idea that there's a whole side to her that isn't like me, that isn't affixed to what I'm affixed to philosophically, that isn't a spitting image of what I hold true.

I'd rather live under the delusion that we're alike in spirit and that's a bond that remedies whatever paltry intellectual or spiritual chasms that may divide us.

"Small towns have the distinct advantage of enabling a slower pace of life," she said suddenly.

"And that's a good thing? It's good to be lazy."

"It's not laziness, sugar. It's a relaxed and less frantic sense of urgency, which I must say is a good thing. You know me, Eeyore--I don't think you could call me lazy. But while I'm home I don't push to get things done before they're ready. I don't find myself in a rush as much as I think you find yourself. It's a distinction that might explain why I'm generally happy most mornings and can go to bed feeling the same. That's one thing small towns have for them."

"Okay. I'll give you that. It's no secret that I take on a lot despite my aversion to real work," I laughed.

"It's like my daddy says, 'some people like to chase the dog and others like to have the dog come to them.' There's a lot of that where I'm from, waiting for stuff to come to you. Or basically leaving it up to fate to take care of you."

"See? I couldn't handle that. I don't have much faith in fate."

"Or much faith in anything."

"Is that another small town value?"

"Nope, that's a personal value."

I love Breanne to bits and pieces, but sometimes she has a distinct quality in her voice which makes it painfully obvious she looks down on me when it comes to religion. It isn't like we have any heated arguments like we used to, but there's still a chip on her shoulder when it comes to the fact that I've all but given up on the pursuit of any type of organized faith. To her, my saying I'm a Deist is tantamount to my saying that I don't believe in happiness.

But this business of trusting others or the some great provider to take care of you runs contrary to a lot of things I believe in. Everyone needs help. Everyone needs some type of support system. But when you put your trust in the cosmic balance of the world to provide you the positive attributes in life, you're pretty much asking for trouble. Again, I'm all for being lazy and not giving your 100% lest you burn out, but I'm also in the camp of knowing if you do this your work will suffer. You can't trust that it will all be corrected in the end, that everything will right itself, or that the results of slacking off will be anywhere near as flawless as the results of diligent and constant effort. People get what they deserve and generally don't get rewarded for doing less than one's neighbor. Basically, I don't have much faith in anyone or anything doing for me out of the kindness of their heart.

"Maybe if you lived in a small town, you'd see things differently, darling," she said, after I explained all of this to her.

"You're saying if I saw life from the slow lane I'd begin to think in slower, more deliberate terms like you."

"Sometimes if you go too fast, you do miss the small details."

"And sometimes if you go too slow, you never make it to where you're supposed to end up."

"And sometimes if you take life a little slower you end up where you want to be instead of where you're supposed to be."

She had a point. People are always rushing around in big cities, trying to get everything accomplished one by one. They know the night before everything they have to do the next day. They know the week before everything that they've scheduled in their blackberries. They know months or years before exactly where they're going to end up in life. I take a look at Breanne and how her life turned out and most of it wasn't a cogent plan. She just went wherever her heart took her. When something changed her mind, she let it change her mind completely without worrying about the small steps she already took in one direction or another. She let life guide her around instead of trying to fashion it in her own ideal of what her life was supposed to be like. Sure, she's had missteps--her marriage, her relationship with her mother, her career--but nothing she didn't learn how to let go of eventually.

And it works for her. It works really well for her, this laid-back approach to achieving her dreams. Yes, the dreams she has now are vastly different than the ones she had when I met her first, but she hasn't held onto the bitterness of never reaching those first goals.


I only wanted something else to do but hang around

"Yeah, well, sometimes I think you're more right than you should be. Somebody has to knock you down a peg or two once in awhile, Breannie."

"It comes with the territory of having a frightening intellect with good common sense, sugar. Ain't it a shame that you sadly possess neither?" she laughed.

I always assumed that people in small towns were too plain to realize that there was a bigger world out there. I used to think their perception of the world was myopic in scope, that because they hadn't taken the time to try everything that there is to try they were missing out on all the facts. Well, it turns out that I could be accused of the same.

I have no idea how real small towns operate. I have no idea how growing up one might be both a hindrance and a boon to those living that lifestyle. I have no idea of the advantages and disadvantages of such a lifestyle. The only thing I have to go on is the word of friends and my own perception of how I'd react in that situation. I assumed that because I'd be spending most of my time trying to get out into the wider world that everyone in those kinds of places should be attempting the same kind of exodus. Just because I find them plain, doesn't make it so.

This was one conversation in probably a dozen where I've really heard something to be admired in my friend coming from a more rural background than myself. She hasn't converted me yet, though. But the more I hear about how she does things differently than me and the more I glean for myself how truly fulfilling and enriching her life is because she made the conscious effort to stay where she was and not to venture too far from home when she grew up, it makes me wonder exactly which one of us has been missing out on the better parts of life.

I suppose there's joy to be found wherever you may be living. I guess a person can get used to any type of environment. However, I read somewhere that you discover early on what you're more suited for career-wise, romantically, and philosophically. It's like swimming to shore. Anybody can get through life doing something they hate, living somewhere they hate, and being around people they hate. But would you rather swim against the current or swim with the current. Once you've discovered where you belong, what you belong doing, and who you belong with, what's the point of still going after what you thought were your goals?

I think that's the main point Breanne was trying to make to me about rural living.

When you live in the big city the pressure to do something is great, even if you haven't found out if that something is the right thing. In places where the pace of life is less pressured, you have ample time to discover where your true talents lay and then begin utilizing those talents productively. Your skills and preferences color your goal instead of your goal determining what your skill set and preferences should be.

There's something to be admired about that mentality... just like there's something to be admired about those small places tucked away in the outskirts of the big city where you can let your imagination and spirit go running like that.

After all, the proof of the kind of people those places churn out can be heard week in and week out by me.

"You've won this round, Miss Chipper, but I'll be back to foil your plans one day, " I say, about to hang up the phone.

"I'll be ready, Mr. Eeyore."

"Good night, Breannie mine, with her eyes so bright, tears so silvery, and my kisses still wet upon her small town cheeks..."

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

Maybe I Didn't Hold You All Those Lonely, Lonely Times, And I Guess I Never Told You, I'm So Happy That You're Mine, If I Made You Feel Second Best

--"You Were Always On My Mind (cover)", Pet Shop Boys

The first thing I thought when her hand grabbed for my hand and held it was the fact that she really did have the softest hands I'd felt in some time. She had told me it was so. She had warned me that all that hand washing and Monk-like obsessiveness about her hands had left them unbelievably supple. It was true. As I held them waiting in line at Chang, it didn't really feel like I was holding them as much as preventing them from completely melting through my fingers.

The second thing I thought when her hand grabbed my hand and held it was the fact it had been awhile since anyone had held my hand. A corollary to this fact I found was the fact that I rather missed having my hand held, a fact I didn't know to be true up until that point. It never occurred to me that I was missing it or that upon revisiting the sensation I would react in such a manner, but it was true. Ever since Illessa left back in May I haven't had much opportunity for much human contact, friendly or otherwise. Even then, she wasn't exactly the touchy-feely type so the few times signs of affection were shown, they were brief and without any lingering effects. Something as innocuous as handholding would have seem overly sentimental to both of us. Thus, it was rarely done. But, there in Kentucky of all places, I had to be taught that even the smallest display of support or friendship is nothing to be trifled with. Any small touch can elicit feelings of joy when one has grown too used to being without it.

I don't know--I go through most of my life thinking that skin-to-skin contact in everyday interaction should be frowned upon. Chalk it up to coming from a somewhat stoic family life or being rather shy as a kid, or possibly just the notion that those kinds of acts should be saved for people who I actually give a damn about. I think of shaking hands or kissing someone hello as much as laying my coat down for a woman to step over a puddle. It's supposedly the sociable thing to do, but it's not in my usual pattern of behavior. I actually can remember plenty of occasions where I've bristled at being intentionally touched and they've all resulted from the shock and surprise of somebody actually laying their hands on me as well as the awkwardness I feel at not knowing how to respond. There are a few people with whom it seemed natural to hold hands, hug, or kiss in public at the drop of hat--Breanne, Tara, DeAnn--but they are all people I loved and cherished. As aforementioned, with people I deem special I can give out such special human touches freely. That seems natural to me. That seems right.

But what of Toby holding my hand in line? What was I to make of that?

I made of it like I was supposed to make of it. We were hot. We had reached a lull in the conversation and she's never struck me as the type to be introverted when it came to her friends. She may be a lot of things, but she's a normal person when it comes to reaching out and being friendly with people. Not overly friendly, but friendly enough to know that her friendship is genuine. I'm the weird one. I'm the one whose first thought when it comes to people being spontaneously affectionate is trying to figure out their angle. Most of the time holding someone's hand leads to the thought they expect something of me or they want me to do something for them. I'm paranoid enough to question the motive of every single action someone takes in regards to me, especially physical ones. I'm sure it showed on my face on that afternoon. I'm sure she felt the apprehension at first in my grip. I don't know if I tried to pull away or just hesitated affirming my hold on her hand, but I'm confident she could feel that it wasn't natural for me.


I'm sorry, I was blind

Yet held it I did. No, we didn't go marching through Six Flags, parading around like a pair of giddy schoolgirls. But until the line resumed moving a few minutes later, I held Miss Marion's hand and for a few minutes I remembered what it's like to have a friend you actually see in person. I remembered that, while words are nice and all, sometimes people need to be reminded that they're cared for and about in purely physical terms. I'm never going to be a hugger, but that doesn't mean I don't like to be hugged. I'm never going to be someone who pats someone on the back or hi-fives someone first, but when it's offered to me I never refuse. I guess you could say that I got used to being on my own, but I'm never going to accept it as my fate.

Sometimes all it takes is one clever girl to remind a person that there's more to life than keeping to one's self. Sometimes when somebody offers their hand, you've got to be willing to meet them halfway and offer yours because someday there might not be another hand being offered to you.

Soft, soft hands.

Like small miracles, bridging two people across all their differences, all their shyness and idiosyncrasies, all the history or non-history between them, all the bullshit that threatens to divide them. It's such a small act of caring that can mean so much to someone who's not used to being cared about in such a fashion.

Or maybe just forgot how.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

The Sun Will Rise Again As Time And Time It Does, And I Will Stand Here Looking At It Exactly As I Was

--"I Don't Know a Thing", Lucy Schwartz

Sometimes it's rather odd that I enjoy adolescent melodrama as much as I do. Whether it was my first (and true) love, Avonlea, to shows like Buffy and Everwood, there's something about watching other people go through the same trials and travails as me and my friends that intrigues me. It isn't merely the identification factor, but delves deeper into an almost connection with these characters, which is the goal of any good or even great show. Sure, there's a myriad of shows centered around grown-ups that I enjoy highly too. Shows like Dexter, The Office, and 24 all fill my quota for spending time with the grown-up set. However, I never really feel a part of their world. My world is similar to those shows, but I can't quite say that everything that they may be experiencing is what I've experienced before or am experiencing now--not like I can with the teenage melodrama programs aforementioned.

Take, for instance, the new show the girls have pinned me to watching regularly, Gossip Girl. Now there's a show that time and time again provides me with many "been there, done that" moments. In much the same vein as Everwood, I'm constantly watching the scenes and telling myself (or whomever I might be talking with at the time) that, change a few words of dialogue and maybe shift the location, you would have my exact memory of when I had to have a similar talk, make a similar decision, or lose something innocent about myself in much the same way. Tonight's episode, where Dan and Serena were talking on the elevator and coming to the conclusion that this third go at trying to make their relationship work wasn't going to come to fruition could have been lifted from a similar situation that I had with Tara in her car while the rain was pouring outside. It wasn't just the heartache of realizing that love doesn't always conquer all; it felt nostalgic for me because it also represented that sense that if you do stay together all that will happen is that you'll have the same fights, make up in the exact same way, and start the process all over again. I too have been in the mire of having to say good-bye when the relationship didn't feel exactly over and having to walk away from something that still felt right and special in so many ways.

That's just my spin on things. I'm sure it happens to us all, where we'll be watching or reading a piece of drama and catch a glimpse of our mirage image in the works. That's why some themes truly are universal. Some experiences all of us go through--first love, unrequited love, first ethical quandary, first loss of someone to death--and perhaps I'm just reading a bit too much in the idea that these events have only happened to me. I tend to do that sometimes. I tend to isolate myself as being the forbearer of all human emotion or experience. I lose myself in my own self-delusion for stretches at a time and am truly surprised when a show can illustrate to me that I'm not as special as I believe myself to be. I'm astonished when said show can so carefully mimic what I thought was unique, so lost in the depths of my selfishness. I don't mean to be, honestly.

It's easier for some of us to believe that no one hurts like we hurt.

It's easier for some of us to believe that no one laughs like we laugh.

It's easier for some of us to believe that no one has had moments like the moments we have had.

The truth is that, the majority of the time, if it's happened to one of us it's pretty much happened to all of us at one time or another. This is not to say that there aren't moments of complete originality, moments like Sam in the movie Garden State says, "can never be recreated ever again." I'm fairly sure no one has celebrated their fifteenth birthday like we celebrated Breanne's fifteenth birthday. I'm fairly sure no one has ever shed his underwear at work so early into their for the idiotic reason I had to shed my underwear at Universal Studios. And I'm fairly sure no one has ever attempted to jump a drawbridge while it was being raised up in the greater Northeastern region of the United States "just for the hell of it." I can claim those as my own. Even if someone else has done all those things, I can pretty much assure that I would still be in some rarified company.

But like the characters on Gossip Girl, I'm not the only one to have fallen in love with someone who seemed so right for me at the time, but, in hindsight, turned out to be wrong in small, almost imperceptible ways. I'm not the only one to have had what seemed their worst mistake in life turn out to be the first step in the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm not the only one to have wanted someone so much I felt the pangs of desperation compel me to act irrationally and without regard for my own safety. Those are the anecdotes we all have in common.


the only thing I know
is I don't know a thing

The more I reflect on this syndrome the more I see that everybody I bump into is relatable in this fashion. These experiences, these nuggets of growth and maturity are what links us in the greater bond of humanity. Maybe the sense of deja vu that comes creeping on me when I watch shows is the same sense that inevitably comes over us all. I think just as the sun rises for all of us and not just for me so do these shows hold a mirror to all who may be watching at the time.

And not just me.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Wish I Was, Homeward Bound, Home Where My Thought's Escaping, Home Where My Music's Playing, Home Where My Love Lies Waiting For Me, Silently For Me

--"Homeward Bound", Simon & Garfunkel

Tonight I've finally gotten into the Sheraton Riverside located in Louisville. Actually, I think I'm technically in Indiana right now. I swear, East Coast Cities and their East Coast state lines. I'm trying to cram as much as I can into tonight because three days isn't really a vacation. I'd say it's more like a jaunt and I really can't be updating this blog as much as I normally do when I take a trip. If I want to get the most out of this experience I need all my free time be spent seeing everything and anything that can't be seen in the likes of California.

Later today I meet up with Miss Toby so she can point out Churchill Downs, maybe the Louisville Slugger Museum, and the rest of the day at Six Flags Over Kentucky Kingdom.

Sunday I take my stupid rented car, which might as well be a mule, it'll be so small, and go spelunking for the parts of Kentucky that you don't find on the map. Maybe I'll try driving over to the Maker's Mark Distillery and going on a tour. I was planning to do that, but it kind of sucks when you don't have any company with you. Drinking alone is never my favorite pastime. Even though traveling is not that bad, I always feel the most alone when I want to get a drink and there's no one to call to get one with. Sometimes it makes seeing a new city rather more than drab than it should be.

Monday I go home.

That leads to the question why I planned such a short trip. More generally, why do I subject myself to such excursions instead of waiting for the appropriate accompaniment? Well, this trip was two-fold. I've been meaning to pay a visit to Marion and this time seemed as good as any. Secondly, I've always wanted to see where the bourbon is born since that, indeed, is my poison of choice. At least those are the reasons I gave my co-workers today and the reasons I told myself when I made these last-minute plans at the end of August.

The real reason why I think I jumped at the opportunity wasn't so much where I was going to. I'm sure once I see the bluegrass country in earnest, I'll describe it as some of the most beautiful country I've ever seen. I'm sure the pictures I take will be breathtaking. I'm sure all the restaurants and sights I see will be memorable. I'm sure the company I keep and make over here will be scintillating and keep me busy the whole time I'm here. Honestly, though, I don't think I'm as focused on coming here as leaving there, California. I think this trip was more about getting away than coming into a place.

I can't even put my finger on what exactly I'm leaving. It's not any one thing. It's not like the world came crashing down on me back home. My job's fine. I have no huge crisis I'm trying to deal with. I'm not carrying any specific baggage. For me this trip is kind of restart of a sort; I'm trying to do something new and innovative instead of feeling like from the moment I wake up to the moment I sleep has been repeated ad nauseam the last couple of years. Everything's starting to feel like more of the same instead of offering up something different. I guess that's why I go on all these trips, because I always manage to feel slightly more of myself when I get away from who I always am in the place I always am.

Boston, Chicago, and, I guess now, Louisville--they're all attempts at the same process. It's basically me trying to find myself by losing myself in a place where (almost) no one knows me. I don't change my personality. Maybe I become friendlier than I already am (already on the shuttle ride here I got to know two of the other guests staying in the Sheraton with me), but not by much. I pretty much stay as even-keeled with occasional bouts of impulsiveness like I normally am. However, when I'm in a new location I always manage to smile more. I always manage to do two or three things I've never done before. I always manage to find one spot that is unlike any spot in L.A., a spot where I tell myself I have to come back to one day.

Los Angeles may be where I live, but I don't know if I can call it home.

It doesn't feel like home. It just feels like where I happened to have been these last thirty years.

Toby thinks when I take these trips of mine, I'm auditioning cities as potential places I might want to move to one day. She might be right. I certainly don't go into these jaunts with the intention of grading the cities on their potential to become my new home city, but a part of me can't help but imagine what it would be like to stay forever in these new cities. What kind of person would I be if I actually could catch a Red Sox game at Fenway all Summer long? What kind of job would I have had I taken up Ilessa's offer to join her in the City of Brotherly Love? What kind of friends would I have were I to be surrounded by the climes and locales of Louisville? I don't know. It's certainly an intriguing exercise of the mind every once in a while when I'm first walking around a town.

The thing is it never feels right anywhere. I don't feel I belong anywhere just yet. I still haven't found anywhere that suits me completely--not even Boston. Somewhere along the way, whether I'm staying a week or even three days, I reach a point where something feels off. I come to the conclusion there is one thing missing that I need to live comfortably or there's something in the new city that's off-putting and undesirable. That's when I usually start looking forward to getting home--not because home is any better, but it's one of the situations where I'd rather deal with the devil I know and have become used to rather than a whole devil or set of devils. I'd rather live in L.A. mildly uncomfortably than anywhere else potentially miserable. I mean--that's what happened to Ilessa and I don't want that happening to me.

Yes, I'm going to enjoy my day with Toby later today. Yes, I'm sure I'm going to take more than one sample of the bourbon back to the hotel room with me on Sunday. Yes, I know there's going to be one or two restaurants that I will simply go on about once I return Monday night.

What won't be returning with is the idea that I fulfilled some great purpose or took care of some big problem. This trip will be what all my trips turn out to be, a fabulous distraction from the numbing normalcy that my life has taken on. Eventually, I'll fall back into the routine and yet again be earmarking the calendar for the next opportunity to break that selfsame routine.

Oh 'twell! That's a thought for Monday night on the plane trip back.

Tonight I sleep for tomorrow I begin accepting what Kentucky has to offer me.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I Gotcha, Uh-Huh, Huh, You Thought I Didn't See Ya Now, Didn't Ya, Uh-Huh, Huh, You Tried To Sneak By Me Now, Didn't Ya

--"I Gotcha", Joe Tex

For the last year, ever since I started going back to the gym, I've been trying to discover the perfect post-workout food. I wanted something that was satisfying, yet cheap since I routinely workout about three or four times a week. I can't be spending upwards of $8 every night for fast food. Well, not long after I began my quest I came across a special deal that Del Taco has on Tuesday nights that would be perfect me--at least on that day. On Tuesdays they have a three taco and medium drink deal for $2.50. You really can't beat that.

The only problem?

I mostly workout after 9:30 or 10 and the deal ends after 11. Week after week I'd tell myself to remember to start working out earlier on Tuesday just so I could take advantage of the deal. Yet week after week almost for the whole year I would should up ten or fifteen minutes after the deal would end. Not only would I be majorly bummed that I couldn't what I wanted, but it would only precipitate my wanting it more. I wouldn't say it became a full-on obsession, but it definitely crossed my mind enough to mention it more than once at work. It was weird; try as I might I just couldn't seem to coordinate my schedule enough to start at the gym that half-hour earlier that I would need to get my taco fix.

Till tonight.

Tonight I managed to show up fifteen minutes before 11 at Del Taco. I even mentioned it to the kind window lady since I see her almost every Tuesday and she's borne witness to every crushing setback on my quest for the Tuesday Night Special. I don't know--I almost took a perverse joy from finally completing task. Yes, they were only tacos, but when you've been waiting this long for something that you've built up in your mind, it's hard to give it up.

Very difficult, indeed.

Tacos.... delish. LOL

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

So Far, I Still Know Who You Are, But Now I Wonder Who I Was, Angel, You Know It's Not The End, We'll Always Be Good Friends

--"Perfect", Smashing Pumpkins

There's a certain sense of dread to the onset of this college football season. It's not because USC isn't on top (because they still are) and it isn't because I've suddenly grown disinterested in the whole collegiate sports hobby (because I haven't). The reason why there's a certain trepidation at witnessing how this season plays out isn't for either of those reasons. The reason is this: I don't want to loss a thousand dollars at the end of the season. I don't want to part with it. I don't even want to consider how inconvenient such a result would be. I just can't deal with it right now.

I know what you're thinking, who would be game enough to take such an enormous bet. Did I lay down a wager like I do for the Red Sox at Vegas at some Sports Book? Nope. Did I happen to make another callous bet with that crazy assistant manager of the Sales Department at work? Nope. No, the person I have the long-standing bet with it is probably the one person in the whole county that you don't ever want to compete with in something she's confident she can win. Not only does she get cocky, but she gets downright mean when it comes to the nature of the competition. She gloats, she whines, she carries on like a four-year-old sometimes. God help me if I lose this bet. God help us all. Because if she wins, they'll be no end to the taunts, the jabs, the jeers, &c... all at my expense. My life of enjoying a simple college football game will cease to exist. It will be instead be haunted by the knowledge that got one over on me and I couldn't do anything to stop her.

I am, of course, talking about Breanne, otherwise known as Miss Georgia Bulldog herself.

I've mentioned before how we have a long-standing tradition of betting one hundred dollars any time one of her teams plays one of my teams. I also mentioned how this escalated from a friendly wager of twenty dollars when we were much younger and relatively poorer. Well, around the beginning of the 2006 football season, after a very confident discussion about how my USC Trojans couldn't be beaten that year, she and I got to arguing over the merits of our respective alma maters. I glorified Southern Cal and she basically placed a halo around good 'ole UGA. Especially when it came to college football, we were excellently matched in demonstrating our school pride. That's when I had the bright idea to wager on the next time University of Georgia would win the National Championship in Football. I mean--hey, they hadn't won since 1980, I figured it was a safe topic of discussion. Little did I know that she was setting me up to pay, and pay big. After much back-and-forth "conferring" on the nature and terms of the wager (I believe at one point she even went to her computer and played "Glory, Glory" repeatedly), the stipulations were spilled out like this:

If Georgia wins the National Title by the end of the 2010 season (BCS Championship in 2011) I will owe her a thousand dollars. However, if Georgia doesn't win the National Title by the end of that season, she will owe me two hundred dollars.

Five years at 5 to 1 odds, and I thought I was getting the better end of the wager. I figured, as good as their team may be, it's almost impossible to imagine that they manage to finish on top in such a short time span. I figured I had an easy two hundred coming my way in five years.

However, now with the advent of Georgia starting the season ranked number one in the polls and having seen them play so dominantly in their first two games, I'm starting to get worried that she might not need the extra two seasons to win this bet. I'm starting to get worried that I chose wrongly and that she had some inkling of foresight that allowed her see into the future that Georgia could be this good. I'm starting to get worried that a thousand dollars might be soon winging its way to Macon.

I'm not worried that it's going to destroy our friendship (because it won't). I'm not worried that this bet is somehow going to make me uncontrollably annoyed with her (because that's a foregone conclusion). What I'm worried about is how this will affect her perception of me. I'm not exactly a gracious loser sometimes. Even when I can get the words out, my tone of voice and my general demeanor betray my sense of dissatisfaction with the outcome. I hate to lose. I hate to lose money. Worst of all, I hate losing money to her. This will be the biggest amount I've ever had to owe her because of a bet and I'm just paranoid this will upset the equilibrium between us somehow. She'll somehow think less of me because she won the "big bet" in much the same way I'd think less of her if I happen to make it to 2011 as the big winner.

Something like this could be an irrevocable change in the status quo in much the same fashion as one of us getting married was, or as someone getting really sick will be. Yes, it's a stupid sports bet, but if I don't hold a grudge (irrational and small as it may well be) I know she's going to have yet another chip on her shoulder because of it. That's the nature of this never-ending game between us. One of us has a victory (moral or otherwise) at the expense of the other person's defeat. It happened when I worked up the courage to first kiss her (point to me), when she opened up her own successful business (point to her), and when the whole debacle with her getting married (point to her) and my not showing up (a very bad point to me). We don't mean to do it. We don't even try to do it. But we're both so stubborn in our own little ways that every time we have the chance to outdo the other person, we take it. We take it and run with it. It's like the younger sister who is constantly trying to outdo the older brother mentality; it doesn't matter that we're not related. There's always a sense of friendly rivalry that permeates how we relate to each other.

However, I've noticed the older we've gotten, the more it doesn't feel as fun any more. There's a sense of real vindictiveness there that it's often difficult to tell where the competitor ends and the friend begins. There's an air of no-holds-barred any more that wasn't there when we used to play around with the kid gloves on when it came to betting. Maybe it's the amount of money being tossed around or maybe it's the seriousness with which we approach the tete-a-tete. The tension feels more pronounced now. It feels more personal. It really feels sometimes like it's me vs. her.

Which is crazy.

Before anything else we are friends. Before I ever start thinking of seeing her as my rival, I see her as the person I trust the most in the world. And no amount of money can shift that point-of-view, right? After all, sure, I might her a thousand dollars at the end of this college season and parting with that amount of money might sting in the short-term, but I have to remember that there are more important transactions have transpired between us.

For instance, it wasn't so long ago that I was down on my luck, bankrupt and alone, when a certain dimple-faced angel agreed to loan me three thousand dollars so I could get by. I didn't ask her. I didn't even accept her first offer (more like her fourth), but in the end she shilled out that three thousand because it felt right to her. It felt like the natural thing to do for a friend, for her best friend. There wasn't a sense of one-upmanship then. She didn't lord it over me in that situation. Where that gift came from wasn't from a sense of charity or proving that she was better than me by being able to loan me out the money. That gift came from the heart, from the other axiom that's always been true about the two of us. Sure, we might bicker and try to outdo each other from time-to-time. But when you get to the crux of the relationship between the two of us, we've always felt like it was us vs. the world before we ever see it us me vs. her.

So, yeah, in the end there might be some shifting of power between us if she wins the bet. Yeah, I'll be very sore at her if she takes my money. But when all is said and done, one thousand dollars isn't that steep of a price to pay for the fifteen years of comfort and support she's provided me without ever asking for a dime.

(USC still will kick ass over Georgia this year, though...LOL)

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

These Are The Moments I Know All I Need Is This, I Have All I've Waited For, And I Could Not Ask For, And I Could Not Ask For More

--"I Could Not Ask For More", Edwin McCain

Some moments you wait a lifetime for, never knowing for sure if they will arrive. You have dreams that you can't ever be sure will come true or not, hopes that will never be fulfilled. You wait a lifetime for events or people or chances that never do quite come, leaving you broken-hearted. That's the hope in all of us that never dies. It doesn't matter how often we get those hopes dashed. It doesn't even matter how crazy the aspirations may be; sometimes it's the smaller dreams that never quite pan out and the bigger dreams that somehow manage to manifest themselves. You just never know. Some moments are like that, half-mixed in hope and impatience and half-mixed in forlornness and wistfulness.

Other moments you're quite sure of with every fiber of your being.

So, on the eve of a homecoming of sorts, I thought it only fitting I reprint one of my favorite poems by... well, me.

Enjoy.

HOMECOMING
by E. Patrick Taroc

As I see her, anticipation swells
Inside my soul, inside my heart,
And the joy upon her face tells
Of her gloom while we were apart.
Her lovely and sylph-like sight quells
My sore yearning; like long-lost art
Her fair form hastily repels
The tears of when she did depart.

Then she nears, with kisses retained,
From the months of being alone,
Then, after weeks of it restrained,
Her fondness is again reshown.
Her restraint no longer maintained,
Her reticence once more unknown,
With gushy signs she once disdained
She insures our love is resown.

(10/02/94) Copyright 1994 E. Patrick Taroc

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

I'm Not Even Angry, I'm Being So Sincere Right Now, Even Though You Broke My Heart, & Killed Me, & Tore Me To Pieces, & Threw Every Piece Into A Fire

--"Still Alive", Jonathon Coulton (sung by GLaDOS)



STILL ALIVE
by Jonathon Coulton

This was a triumph.
I'm making a note here:
HUGE SUCCESS.
It's hard to overstate
My satisfaction.
Aperture Science--
We do what we must
Because we can
For the good of all of us
Except the ones who are dead.
But there's no sense crying
Over every mistake.
You just keep on trying
Till you run out of cake.
And the Science gets done
And you make a neat gun
For the people who are
Still alive.


I'm not even angry.
I'm being so sincere right now.
Even though you broke my heart.
And killed me.
And tore me to pieces.
And threw every piece into a fire.
As they burned it hurt because
I was so happy for you!
Now these points of data
Make a beautiful line.
And we're out of beta.
We're releasing on time.
So I'm glad I got burned.
Think of all the things we learned
For the people who are
Still alive.

Go ahead and leave me.
I think I prefer to stay inside.
Maybe you'll find someone else
To help you.
Maybe Black Mesa...
THAT WAS A JOKE, HA HA, FAT CHANCE.
Anyway this cake is great.
It's so delicious and moist.
Look at me still talking when there's Science to do.
When I look out there
It makes me glad I'm not you.
I've experiments to run.
There is research to be done
On the people who are
Still alive.

And believe me I am still alive.
I'm doing science and I'm still alive.
I feel fantastic and I'm still alive.
While your dying I'll be still alive.
And when your dead I will be still alive.
Still alive.
Still alive.

----

Before yesterday Portal, the computer game was barely a blip on my radar. I'd heard of it in passing if only because I still sometimes check on all the old computer and video gaming websites that I was once addicted every so often. All the reviews and buzz regarding the game seemed to have been positive--just not positive enough to have compelled me to go out and buy an XBOX 360 or Playstation3 to play the game for myself.

Yesterday, though, I was reading through Felicia Day's blog when she posted up a video of her singing "Still Alive" at the Penny Arcade Expo in Seattle this past weekend. What can I say? I totally fell in love with the song. Not only is it catchy, but there's a sense of humor to it that's hard to locate in most other songs. That's when I found out, not only is it a video game song (from the aforementioned Portal), but it's sung by the game's nemesis, evil boss, what have you &... as a final taunt to the game's heroine. Well, that just brought to mind all sorts of funny images. HAL, the computer from Wall-E, and even the aliens from Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy--all of the great bureaucratic characters with their over-amplified sense of politeness even as they're stabbing you in the back made for some of the great villains in our time.

GLaDOS, the villain from Portal trumps them all, I'd say, because she does all her plotting with refined manners and a hilarious repertoire of self-help slogans and psychobabble jargon. As Wikipedia describes her:

Over the course of the game, GLaDOS' motives are hinted to be more sinister than her helpful demeanor suggests. Although she is designed to appear helpful and encouraging, GLaDOS's actions and speech suggest insincerity and callous disregard for the safety and well-being of the test subjects. The test chambers become increasingly dangerous as Chell proceeds, and GLaDOS even directs Chell through "a live-fire course designed for military androids" due to the usual test chamber being under repair. In another chamber, GLaDOS boasts about the fidelity and importance of the "Weighted Companion Cube", a waist-high crate with a single large pink heart on each face, for helping Chell to complete the chamber, but then declares that it "unfortunately must be euthanized" in an "emergency intelligence incinerator" before Chell can continue.[19] Some of the later chambers include automated turrets with child-like voices that fire upon Chell, only to sympathize with her after being disabled ("I don't blame you." and "No hard feelings.").

I don't know--the very idea of a petulant and snarky computer tickles me to no end. Not only does it make me curious to play the game, but it also calls to mind how it's not so far off to see that kind of behavior in real-life people.

----

On Saturday, I went to what I thought was another board game meeting in Torrance. I was all prepared to break out my copy of Agricola and teach it to the unfortunate masses who had never had the pleasure of playing it before. I expected it to be to exactly like all my other boardgamers club meetings--a gathering of people who lived and breathed Euro-style boardgames.

I think the first tip-off should have been the fact that it was held at a church. Churches and me have never mixed--well, occupied churches, that is. Abandoned churches are fine if a certain Southern belle is with me. The moment I walked into that church I had a bad feeling that the meeting wasn't going to turn out as I expected. Yet I had hope. Appearances can be deceiving and I was willing to let the evening play out in the hopes that I would have a location much closer to home with which to alleviate my gaming itch.

The second tip-off was twofold. The first is the fact that none of the people who arrived were all that gung-ho about starting up a game. The meeting time was written as 6:30. I don't believe the first game hit the table till close to 7:15. Forty-five minutes is an eternity when you're expecting to start a game as soon as you arrive. Couple that with the fact that I'm used to games being started within five or ten minutes after the meeting starts and you can see how I started to think that these people weren't exactly gamers of my mentality. Secondly, before the games even started (again, almost an hour after start time), the entire group gathered in a circle to pray.

Pray.

PRAY!

Who the hell prays before playing board games? I don't even pray when it's supposed to be a time to pray. I don't know why anyone would expect me to pray when it's my own time I'm wasting.

That's when I figured out where I was. All the nice welcomes and "how are you doing?" weren't just good manners. The folks there were buttering me up so I could join their little coven. I mean--had they announced it as a church meeting I would have declined the invitation, but I wouldn't have thought less of them. It's the very notion of being nice to a person only to try to recruit them that bothered me. Yes, they could have been naturally happy people for all I knew, but when you obscure the agenda because you're afraid people are going to be turned off by it, that smacks of censorship. I hate the feeling of being lied to. I hate the sensation that I'm the last person to know what's really going on. And that's the sensation I got when I started overhearing the conversations around me.

It was bad enough that their idea of great games were Monopoly, Risk, and Pokeno (Pokeno for chrissakes isn't even a game you play; the game plays you!), they had to go so far as to proclaim themselves a game club. What they were and what they will always be is a church group that happens to play games, which is fine. I have no problem with them billing themselves as such. But when you go through the trouble of advertising on gaming networks and forums, you should put the gaming first (which they don't). Nothing else--and I mean nothing else--especially gods, idols, or damn superstitions should be anywhere near top priority at meetings.

I mean--I've been preached to before. When your best friend is heavy into the G-O-D thing, it's hard not to listen to a lecture or two. But at least she has the decency to be open about, at least she has the fortitude to let me know she wants to see me saved. When you promote an air of secrecy about your intentions, when you have to cloak your purpose with lies, you're playing on the dark side.

It doesn't matter how nice you are and that you claim you're only trying to be helpful. Helping someone entails earning their trust, being honest with them. When your help only comes at the cost of being tricked--well, that's the kind of assistance that I don't need.

Not only did this church group ruin one of the few days I have off, but they left a bad taste in my mouth at the fact that even something that brings joy to me can be tainted with the stink of religion.

That's why I find the character of GLaDOS so hilarious because she's every religion in the world to me. They'll lie to your face and act like they're helping, but the minute you try to go another direction it's all fire and brimstone for you. Suddenly, you're on the wrong side of their good graces and they're coming after you to right yourself.

It doesn't matter how nice of a person or organization you are; if your intentions are not straightforward, you're evil.

Fucking evil.

Case closed.

Yours Swimmingly,
mojo shivers

JoCo and Felicia Day singing "Still Alive" at PAX 2008