Joe The Peacock's Blog.

A Letter To My 16-Year-Old Self

2012-05-16T00:30:00.000-04:00

Note: I wrote this a year and some months ago. Recently, I've been reminded of why things like this need to be shared and put into the faces of young people, so I'm reposing it today. Along with the "That's Why You Don't Have Any Friends" post, I hope that it serves as fuel for thought for young people facing the challenges of being ostracized, picked on, singled out and generally feeling like they're alone. Because they're not -- we're here. But they need to know that.

Dear Joe:

Hey. It's me. You. Whatever. Only, I'm from THE FUTURE^TM. 2012, in fact. So, to answer your first question, no, the world doesn't end in the year 2000. Also, the whole Y2K bug you're going to hear about in about 3 years? Totally overplayed. You're going to make a TON of money helping fix it though. Learning COBOL will be boring, but trust me, it's worth wasting the year of your life to do it.

Listen -- I know that right now, things seem bleak. High school sucks. You're going to be saying that for quite a while after you leave it, because it really does suck that much. No, it doesn't get any easier as you become a Junior and a Senior. In fact, what's going to happen is you're going to become more and more aware of just how little you're getting from the experience. It's a waste of time. Except for the bits involving Mike and the student teacher you're going to have in English class your Senior year. Those are worth sticking around for.

But don't mistake your hyper awareness of just how futile high school is for some superior intelligence. You're not really smarter than everyone else, anymore than someone who knows it's going to rain is smarter than the guy who failed to pack an umbrella. It seems that way, because you're better prepared. But you're not smarter. You just picked up on something quicker than the others. The only difference is that you won't regret being rained on. You're not smarter, you're just ready to go. Drop the attitude. You'll enjoy the next few years a little more.

You feel trapped right now, I know. But you're going to travel the world. In fact, I'm writing this from LaGuardia airport in New York. Yes, you get to go to New York, finally. You spend a few weeks there when you're 19, and you're going to be scared to death to leave your hotel room for almost a week. In fact, being scared to leave your hotel room will be a motif for the first few travel experiences you have. But that's because you do them alone.

It's going to be amazing, trust me. You'll have some great experiences. You're going to love figuring out new cities. It's going to be an addiction for a while.

You're going to move out of mom and dad's place in a few years. This will make your relationship with them ten times better. Try to respect them. It's tough. Mom's going crazy as you get older, because she's feeling like her job as a mother is coming to an end. It's hard to stop being something you've been for 18 years, you know?

No, of course you don't know. Duh. You're a 16 year old asshole. I mean that in the nicest possible sense, of course.

When you leave mom and dad's, you're going to spend about 6 months in college. Yes, you drop out. You already know you will, but you go through the exercise anyway. Don't skip that -- go ahead with it. You end up getting some pretty great opportunities from working in the computer lab. Oh, and as you may have guessed from my mention of COBOL earlier, that internet thing you play on at night? That's going to be a career for you. One of three, in fact. It rocks. You're going to get paid gobs of money to invent cool shit.

I know, right? But don't rush it. Take your time. The really cool stuff doesn't start showing up until 2000, and by then, you're going to be pretty sick of it. In fact, you take a break from it in 2005. And get this -- when you take your break, you become an author! A real life, no kidding book writer. It's nuts. As of the time I'm writing this, you have written two books. One of them, you put out yourself (yep, just like Henry Rollins does), and the other is published by Penguin Books. You're writing a third. But you've been sidetracked by -- and this is really the point of this letter -- your comic.

You finally start drawing a comic. I know you're drawing them now, but in a few years, you're going to hear something horribly hurtful from someone you care deeply about. It's going to sting worse than all the shit everyone says right now, and it's going to cause you to back away from the drawing table for years and years. I'm not going to tell you who, or what happens, because even though it's the most hurtful thing you go through in the next few years, it's also the path you take to truly becoming your own person. It sucks, but it's important. Know that I wouldn't hold this information from you if I didn't think it was absolutely vital you go through it.

And that's what I wrote this to tell you. Everything you are hearing from everyone right now is wrong. They're small minded backwoods redneck assholes who are jealous of what they know you will eventually become. They call you "fag" and "pussy" because you draw and love comics, because they themselves have been held back from truly loving what they want to love and are jealous that you still get to.

They are wrong. You are alright. It's okay to be a football playing comic book fan. It's alright to play Dungeons and Dragons in the lunch room with your "geek" friends. It's just fine to be both athletic and a fan of stuff that isn't supposed to be a jock's chosen interest.

You won't go to college to play football. You won't be a pro football player (you actually do get signed to a team when you're 32, but the league folds before you can play your first game. But it turns out, it's actually a good thing, because some really fucking awesome shit happens that year with your Akira collection. Trust me, football sucks compared to touring the world showing people your anime cel collection).

So go out there and make dad proud. Light fools up on the football field and revel in the fact that you legally get to pop assholes in the mouth full-speed. Just know that it DOES end, thank God. I know it sucks going out there everyday... Just make the best of it. You'll be done with it before you know it. And when you finally do hang up your helmet and focus on living life for yourself instead of your father, know that the road is tough and worth every single step.

There are a few things I wish you would do different, though. Don't stop working out. You become a 375 lb. fat ass for a few years. Life is much easier if you don't. You learn nothing of any particular use from the experience, aside from just how expensive Big and Tall clothing can get. Really, you can do without this experience. Work out. Don't stop. Keep your fitness.

Also, don't trust anyone until they've proven they can be trusted. That gets you into trouble in life a few times. You're going to fall victim to trusting the wrong family members; the wrong "friends" and business associates are going to bleed you dry. You're going to lose some money -- a lot of it in fact -- to these people. It's alright though. Again, it's one of those experiences that actually make you a better guy.

You're going to marry your dream girl. You haven't met her yet, but when you do at age 21, you're going to fall head over heels in love. And you're going to have to wait for her, too. It's going to suck. You have to be her best friend while she dates a total fucking loser for about two years. There will be a few girls in your life during that time.

You don't realize it now, but you're actually going to be a total dick to a girl and it's going to feel awful. You won't want to, but you're going to. And it's going to be one of the few regrets you actually carry with you. But it'll make you a better husband to your dream girl. She's an athlete. She's gorgeous. And she's so amazing in every way. You're going to wonder every single day why the hell she chose you. But don't discount yourself. You treat her well. You deserve her, and she deserves you. It's the best relationship you'll ever have in your life.

The bottom line: it's all going to be alright. Don't waste another second wondering if it will. You have an awesome life so far. It's hard, and there's some insane crap that's coming in your very near future (enough to write both of those books I told you about). And even though it feels like you're going through hell at the time, each and every one of those experiences is going to make you into who you are right now, which is pretty damn great if I do say so myself.

Take a few deep breaths. Realize that what you're feeling right now is very temporary. You will escape it, and not via the desperate method you're contemplating right now. Of course, if we're honest with ourselves, it's just a test to see if you have the balls to do it. You don't.

But eventually, you'll actually face a situation in your life where you seriously do consider doing what you're thinking about doing right now. And it'll be the darkest, most lonely moment you'll face in your life. You will actually taste the gunpowder residue on the barrel of the gun. It'll taste salty and dirty. And it's because no one has ever told you what I'm trying to tell you right now: YOU ARE ALRIGHT. The shit you've gone through, it's awful. It's terrible. And you will bury it deep inside of yourself until you have no choice but to face it.

And you win. By facing yourself down; by not pulling that trigger, you win. You beat them all.

Know that.

Love,

Yourself at Age 35

The $4,269.95 Pocket Knife (Or, "You, Too, Can Have Finger Surgery!")

2012-05-15T01:05:00.002-04:00

I own the world's most expensive pocket knife. Let me show you it:

This is the SpyderCo Civilian G-10. It's SpyderCo's answer to other knife companies making spring-loaded and spring-assisted weaponry under the guise of self defense. And it's BEAUTIFUL.

Among many other things, I collect knives. I don't have a particular obsession with cutting things. I'm not a "knife nut." But I do like a beautiful blade. I find steel working and craftsmanship to be quite fascinating, and when there's a rare or exceptional blade made by a company I like, I purchase it. I own the Ken Onion Shun knife series for my cooking, the first edition Benchmade Balisong 42, and a bunch of other beautiful, exquisitely crafted blades.

I use them mostly to open boxes.

Well, honestly, I don't really use most them to do that job. I usually use scissors for that. I've only used this one to do that, at least recently. And I've only done it once. And it was because of that one time that this became the single most expensive knife I own.

This knife retails for $269.95. And it's worth it, I tell ya. Full stainless steel, solid construction, sharp as the dickens. The surgery it forced me to get, however, is going to run somewhere in the neighborhood of $4,000.00.

And how did this knife force me to get surgery? Well, I'll be honest -- it didn't. I forced me to get surgery. Because I was an idiot.

About two months ago, I received a gigantic box of books from Japan. Some rare books by Moebius, a rare program guide from a Designer's Republic exhibit in Tokyo, and several gigantic volumes of manga. All told, this box probably weighed about thirty pounds.

I'd been waiting nearly two months for this box, so when it arrived, I was QUITE excited. After signing for it, I brought it into the house and sat it down on the dining room table. Right there in front of me was the newly-purchased SpyderCo Civilian G10 knife. Now, on the packaging for the knife and in the documentation for the knife, it clearly states it is NOT a utility knife. They put this literature in front of you so that you cannot claim to local law enforcement that it is, since some knife-related laws allow you to carry utility knives of a certain length that you couldn't carry if it was for self defense.

And this is for self defense, not opening boxes. But hey, it's a knife, and it was there, and I figured "What the hell, I need this box opened." So I used the knife on it. And it worked just fine.

After pulling out a bit of packing material and verifying that this was indeed the box of books I was waiting for (as I do import quite a lot of things from Japan), I wanted to carry them into the kitchen so that I could sort through them and perhaps read one while I finished up a little bit of work. And I figured while I was at it, I'd carry the SpyderCo Civilian G10 into the kitchen with me, so that I wouldn't forget to finally carry it upstairs and place it in my office (where my wife had been asking me to put it for a few weeks).

So, I picked up the box, and then I reached down with my right hand and "slid" the knife against the bottom of the box, placing my hand underneath the hilt to hold it firm against the box. I carried it into the kitchen with no issues. But as I was walking toward our kitchen island, the knife began to slip.

"That's going to go into my foot," I thought. "I don't want it to go into my foot. That would be bad." So I quickened my pace slightly and made it to the kitchen island just as the knife slid out of my hand. It was poised to land right on the kitchen island.

"But it might slip from the island," I thought. "And then it'll land on my foot. And that would suck." Before I could even think, my reflexes forced my hands down (with the box still in them) to "trap" the knife between the box and the island, so that it wouldn't slide off the island and into my foot. Which would suck.

Instead, the back of the knife hit the island just as my right index finger hit the open blade. In less than a second, I'd severed the extensor tendon in my right index finger's first knuckle.

I'm not sure if you've ever severed your extensor tendon on the first knuckle of your right index finger, or if you've ever experienced a deep cut of any sort, but the first thing you think isn't "Ow." It's not "Ouch" or "Oooooh" or "That smarts."

It's "Well, fuck." Because it doesn't actually hurt at first, but you know that with time, the pain is going to find you. And when it does, it's going to SUCK.

More than that, the blood starts flowing pretty much immediately. You're making a mess before you even realize you've damaged yourself. There was a pool of blood on my kitchen island and another on my kitchen floor before I could even process that maybe, just maybe, I should stop the pools of blood from forming by stopping the bleeding.

But once I did, I took care of business. I applied pressure, then went and rinsed the wound immediately. I applied peroxide and then rinsed again, then held pressure until the bleeding stopped.

Because this was the knuckle and because I'd stopped the bleeding, I didn't really think I needed to go to the emergency room. But within a day, I'd caught a pretty decent cold (due to some recent travel) and I figured, while I was going to the doctor to get some antibiotics, I'd ask him what he thought of the cut.

"I think you've severely damaged yourself and you need to see the orthopedist," he said.

He sent me to my orthopedist, who knows all of my history and has dealt with my knees, ankles and elbow for quite some time now. And within seconds of looking at it, she smirked, walked out of the room, and came back with the surgeon. "Severed?" she asked.

"Severed," he replied. And that's all they really needed to say. Except, that's not all they said. They said that, while I could opt not to repair it and just live with it, within a year I'd begin to experience the type of arthritis pain someone in their fifties might feel, and within 3 years the pain would be severe to crippling. They said that if I acted now, I had a good chance of restoring movement to the knuckle, which would... Well, honestly, it doesn't do much. I can point straight again. That's about it.

And so, at 4:00PM today, I'm going to be put to sleep so that highly skilled surgeons can slice into my right index finger's first knuckle to reattach the tendon, which will save me from early-onset arthritis and a lifetime of pain in that digit.

All because I was a fucking idiot with a knife. A $4,269.95 knife.

I doubt very highly I'd get that much on eBay for it.

Friendship Vs. Codependency

2012-05-14T02:25:00.003-04:00

You don't feel worthy of peoples' friendship, so you go out of your way to make them dependent on you. Because if they don't NEED you, they may not WANT you. And then you won't have any friends.

Sound familiar? If it doesn't, then none of this applies to you. You can safely close the browser window now. But if it does, let's you and I have a little chat.

You're a giver. You give. Give give give. That's you. Giving makes you a good friend. It's who you are. Your heart is open and you give freely of yourself to those you love and care for. But what happens when they don't give in return?

You probably won't believe it's true. "They're my friend," you say. "I like giving. I like going out of my way for them. I love them."

This may not have gotten you hurt yet... But you need to trust me when I tell you, it will. I guarantee it. You may or may not be familiar with the term codependency. I'm not a psychiatrist or a psychologist, but I can tell you that's what is going on, and you need to face it.

It takes two people to be "friends." Friendship is, by its very nature, give AND take. Each party gives equally. If one person is continually giving and the other isn't reciprocating, what you have is not friendship. What you have is codependence.

You will NEVER have an honest friendship until you learn to respect and value yourself enough to take as much as you give. You will have users. You will have abusers. You will have passers-by that like you, that you perceive as caring far more about you than they actually do -- because you like them that much, so they have to like you that much.

You'll go so far out of your way for them, and you have. Time and again. And when asked why they haven't done that for you, you will reply "Well, I've never needed it" or "I couldn't let them do that, I can handle myself" or something that sounds similar. And to be honest, it's true. Those aren't lies. But they are justifications.

I tell you this because maybe you keep getting hurt, or maybe you keep feeling used, or maybe you just plain need to hear why it is you end up in the gutter so often. It's because you keep laying down in it and letting people walk on your back over the muck and the mud.

When they don't reach down and pull you up after your great sacrifice, ask yourself -- did they ever ask you to do it in the first place? Because if they didn't, they don't actually owe you anything. You chose to do that. That's your call. To expect the same from them is natural, but it IS unfair.

I'm not saying that you shouldn't go out of your way for the people you love. I'm just saying that, should you find yourself doing so constantly and ending up unrewarded for your valiant efforts, maybe you should ask yourself why you're doing it. I'm willing to bet everything I own that the answer, after a tremendous amount of digging, will end up being what I said above: you feel like the only way people WANT to be with you is if they NEED you.

And that's not healthy. Worse, it's GOING to end up in pain. Over and over again. There is no other way for it to end, because no matter what happens, you're pouring more energy into being needed than they could ever reciprocate.

Because you have no sense of self. Because there's no "you" in you. That's an infinite hole that cannot be filled by anyone except you. And the more of you you keep pouring out, the less likely it will ever be that you can begin filling that hole and becoming a whole person. You deserve to receive as much as you give. Start by giving a little to yourself.

"What Right Do YOU Have..." (And Happy Mother's Day)

2012-05-13T09:36:00.000-04:00

I am continually asked "What right do you have to express an opinion on parenting when you don't have kids?"

I am a member of society. You're raising the next generation of people I have to live with on this Earth, who will shape what this society I'm a part of will become. I get to have an opinion on that.

If you disagree, fuck you.

Happy Mother's Day.

On Misogyny

2012-05-12T06:57:00.003-04:00

Yesterday was, in short, very trying.

I wrote a post about what has become the hot topic du jour across the nation, the woman who posed on the cover of Time Magazine with her three-year old sucking on her breast. I don't have a particularly positive opinion about her. In fact, I fucking hate her. I don't even know her. I don't need to. She put her child in a deliberately compromising position on the cover of a national magazine to further an agenda of her own. A small amount of research surfaced her blog, where she systematically did the same -- including posting pictures of her other much older adopted child breastfeeding at the age of 10, and her two children eating her edible underwear.

The conversation on this topic ranged from support to demonizing and everything in-between. And in a few cases, women who support her style of parenting called me a misogynist. I was accused of hating women for my opinions about one woman.

To address this accusation, I want to share with you a very short story:

A few years ago, I was friends with a couple. It didn't last long.

They had a child. I met them when the child was six years old. His mother still wiped his butt for him, cut his food and fed him, and bathed him. At six years old.

The father allowed this to happened. His justification for it: she's the mom. She raises him. He works and brings home the bacon. I would be at their house when the boy came home from school. He would cry continually because he was picked on at school. He had no idea how to stand up for himself. He had absolutely no sense of identity. He was ill prepared for the world.

One day, I voiced my opinion on the situation. I was as tactful as I could possibly be, explaining that while I don't have children, I had to say that I felt the boy was in a horrible place to take care of himself when not coddled by his mom. They flipped out, and we stopped being friends.

I hated her.

Not women. Her. I don't hate women. I hated THAT woman.

I also hated him. He was a shitty man, and in many ways, placed women in a category by themselves where they were to be solely domestic beings who raise children. That guy, I would call a misogynist.

But I don't hate men. I hated THAT man.

You can hate a person and their behavior without hating all people in their class. I hate shitty parents, And one of the shitty parents I hate is the woman who posed on the cover of Time Magazine with her three year old child sucking on her tit. And I wrote about it.

I don't hate women who breastfeed their child past the age of one, or two, or three. I find that method of parenting distasteful and compromising to the social development of a child, but in no way does it make me hate them, and definitely not them as women.

The older a kid gets while being coddled, however, the more I begin to hate the parent for crippling the kid's ability to function in this world, to the point that I'm going to end up hating them for what I feel is tantamount to child abuse. I find that method of parenting to be complete bullshit. But does that make me a woman hater? Only if you're one of the people I'm calling out on the behavior and you're so desperate to be in the right that you'll lob extremes at me to discredit me. You're no different than someone who would call Obama "Hitler" (which doesn't even make sense... Which I guess is the reason it's just as ridiculous).

I don't advocate violence against women. I don't even advocate abject violence against the Time Magazine woman. I would, however, love to see someone like my wife slap the shit out of her for her behavior in this instance. I don't believe she deserves a beatdown for breastfeeding her three year old. I believe she deserves a slap in the face for putting her kid on the cover of a national magazine sucking on her tit, which is absolutely going to result in a TMZ feature on "Where Is He Now?" in twenty years and ruin his life, just to further her own ego and agenda.

There's a vast difference between hating the behavior of a particular person and hating a class that person belongs to. There's also a vast difference between being a writer having a sociological opinion on when it's too old to breastfeed a child in a country where poor drinking water and lack of nutritious food isn't a concern, and advocating a gender based system of rules or bias. And its especially different from hating women.

For the record:

I think any parent (male or female) who coddles their child (male or female) is doing the child a disservice.

I think any parent (male or female) who uses or compromises their child (male or female) to further their agenda, pocket book or ego, is doing the child a disservice.

I think any parent (male or female) who takes photos of their child (male or female) eating the mother's edible underwear is doing the child a disservice.

I think that nurturing a child is appropriate and important. I think that having a child participate in activities against their will for their own good or the good of the family (like going to visit a relative when they'd rather play video games, or mow the lawn) is appropriate and important. Build character. Show love and patience and understanding. Be a good parent.

It's a child. it deserves a childhood. It's an innocent, and as life gets harder, it's going to lose more and more of that innocence. It's part of life. We experience hardship.

When the parent is part of that hardship, they're a shitty parent. And I hate them, both male and female. And when a dad poses on the cover of a national magazine doing something that compromises that child's innocence or future and is coddling them in what I feel is an unhealthy way, I'll call that guy on it and advocate slapping the taste out of his mouth.

Just because the target of my piece happened to be a woman, doing something only a woman can do, in a way that objectified and compromised that child's innocence and future -- providing what I feel is an unhealthy level of coddling -- does not make me a woman hater. And if I may be so blunt, fuck you for being so desperate to defend your point that you would call me one.

The fact that there were 27 people who called me that out of the thousands of people who read my article and in each case, each of them was a woman, doesn't make me hate women. It makes me hate people who leap to extreme descriptions to defend their point or attack mine. If you read through this blog, you'll find piece after piece that lauds and outright empowers women. Your reactionary need to leap to extremes just because you engage in behavior that I find distasteful is pathetic.

I'm not a misogynist. I'm a you-sogynist. I don't hate women. I hate you.

And with that, I've said all I intend to say on the internet about the matter. I won't be responding to emails, Facebook posts or tweets that call me a misogynist. If you want to discuss it further, send a self-addressed envelope straight up your ass and learn nothing. Thank you.

"Extreme Parenting" Is Fucking Bullshit

2012-05-11T06:08:00.002-04:00

There is so much wrong with the cover photo of this week's Time Magazine depicting a three year old boy breastfeeding, I don't even know where to start:

There is nothing at all about this that isn't fucked up.

That child is three years old. Three years old is too old to breastfeed, period. I don't care what book you read, who you talk to, the crowd you run with; if your child is old enough to form the words "Mom, put your tit in my mouth" you shouldn't.

The article that the cover photo teases covers "Attachment Parenting" -- a movement which encourages parents to answer a child's every cry, wear it like a backpack and breastfeed it long after it's absolutely necessary. And it's disturbing in so many ways. The point of parenting isn't to cater to a child's every need -- you're not its servant, you're a PARENT. Your job isn't to teach a child that crying yields service. It's to teach the kid how to survive in a world that's wrought with equal parts opportunity and danger.

A kid cannot learn to find its own way and take advantage of opportunities presented it when it's used to being catered to. And it certainly can't learn how to take its lumps and deal with the harsh realities of growing up when you protect it from every little discomfort that could possibly befall it. It's borderline abuse. If you're an adult cognizant enough to know how hard the world can be on your child that you protect it from every little bump, scrape and emotional boo-boo, you're aware enough to know that one day, when you release it into the world, it's skin is going to be so thin that it won't be able to survive.

I believe in nurture. I'm a believer that we humans require nurturing well into adulthood and beyond. I'm a 35 year old man, and I still want it. The comfort of knowing that I have a confidant and protector at home in my wife gives me the drive and ability to head out and take risks. I know that when I succeed, I can come to her with the complications of a new opportunity and get help sorting it out, and when I fail, I have someone who can give me perspective and help me realize it's just a temporary setback on a road that extends far further than just right now.

But I certainly don't lift my head after crying on her shoulder and say "Ok, cool, I'm hungry, whip out your tit so I can eat." And if she's not present to coddle me, I don't shut down. I man up and get shit done.

And then, there's the question if there's even the necessary nutrition in mother's milk for a child of three years old. By that age, bones are taking shape and the body is rapidly changing. A child is usually moving off of strained and whipped vegetables onto solid foods. I'm not sure that milk is going to be enough to sustain the child.

Now, if that kid is eating solid food while also breastfeeding, this whole situation turns really creepy, really fast. There's an argument (however weak) that can be made that this woman thinks that her milk is the most nutritious food for her child, so she breastfeeds it. But the moment it begins eating solid foods and she still lets it lamprey off her tata, it's no longer about the kid's nutrition, it's a psychosis.

Moving on, that mother is a sensationalist. She's using her child to gain attention for herself. Sure, it's under the guise of "letting people see it so that society can get used to" her cause. And never mind the cause is complete bullshit -- it's using your child for your own ends. That is a kid. It has to do what you say. To put it on the cover of a national magazine in a compromising position may be borderline abusive, but is absolutely selfish.

And the look on her face... It's not quite enough to make me reconsider my strict policy on hitting women. I have a hard time justifying that in any situation. But I'd certainly cheer if another, far more responsible mother slapped the smug off that face:

Ugh.

*Updated 11:36 AM *

My friend Mark found this article which discusses this woman's blog, IAmNotTheBabySitter.com. In this blog, she shows pictures of her 10 year old adopted son breastfeeding from her, as well as photos of her children tasting her edible panties.

From the blog:

From Her Blog – IAmNotTheBabySitter.com – Something to brighten your day! The boys went to look for confiscated M&Ms and found edible underwear instead! They figured out it was edible in about 30 seconds on their own. However, I don’t think they were fans of the flavor

...Yeah. So there's that.

Now, for the photo itself:

The photo is salacious. It's a posed photo with an older child suckling its mother's teat. This is not the same as a baby breastfeeding -- this child is old enough to know to look at the camera and the mother is very obviously doing the photoshoot to prove a point. I won't go so far as to say that Time Magazine is irresponsible for publishing the photo. The image accurately depicts the topic of the story and definitely solicits reaction. But I will say it's desperate.

Imagining the photoshoot itself, I can only think of a photographer instructing the child to suck the tit, then look at the camera... Now lift your chin... Turn this way a little... Okay, good *snap* Now, look up... Good *snap* Now, let's bend your knee a little, mom, so your tit is a little lower -- Perfect!!! *snap*

It's just disturbing to think that someone found the 'art' in an overbearing snot of a mother letting her walking, talking, thinking child suck on her boob for a cover photo.

If there's one good thing that could come from this whole situation, it's the fact that this movement might very well be demonized (as it should be). It's Poor Parenting, The Movement. It's selfish and irresponsible to protect a child from every danger of life all the time, because at some point (if your lives follow the natural pattern of things) you're going to die, and that kid is going to be on its own.

It's not only your job to prepare it for that moment, its your job to make it self sustaining long before it happens.

I Don't Get It.

2012-05-10T07:51:00.001-04:00

I consider myself a smart guy.

I actively seek understanding and knowledge, and to that end, I read (a lot). I ask a lot of questions. I talk to a lot of people. I watch videos. I listen to talks. I try to pay attention to as much around me as I possibly can. And I feel like I do a pretty fair job of accumulating data, parsing it and drawing at least somewhat educated conclusions about things.

But I have to come clean: There's one thing I just plain cannot understand, and that's why anyone gives a shit about gay people getting married.

Why is this a thing? Why does it matter? It makes NO sense to me whatsoever.

Two men or two women decide to tie the knot. What happens? Why are religious people and Republicans (usually one in the same) so up in arms about it?

To try to wrap my head around it, I've analyzed it step by step and see what effect it has on you (or anyone who isn't them).

1) They love each other. They have found another person on this planet -- a planet housing nearly 7 billion (that's 7,000,000,000) people -- that they not only get along with, that they not only feel emotions toward, that they not only share a bond with, but that they feel safe around and unified with. They love each other. Just like you love your spouse, fiancee, or significant other.
Who does this affect? Their friends, who are happy for them. Their family, who (we hope) support them.
Does this impact your daily life? No.
What should you do about it? Mind your own fucking business.

2) They exchange vows. They promise to love, honor, protect and support one another.
Who does this affect? The caterer, the event planner, the hosts, and the attendees.
Does this impact your daily life? No.
What should you do about it? Mind your own fucking business.

3) They hand each other rings. They place a band of metal (or string or what have you) on each others' hands as an external symbol that they are in a monogamous relationship with another person.
Who does this affect? The jeweler. They've made a little money.
Does this impact your daily life? Well, are you the jeweler? No? Then no.
What should you do about it? Mind your own fucking business.

4) They consummate the marriage. However they see fit.
Who does this affect? Unless they're particularly loud about it and you're in the next room, no one except them.
Does this impact your daily life? It shouldn't. If it does, you're overly concerned about the private lives of other people and seriously, seriously, SERIOUSLY need a hobby that isn't counting rosary.
What should you do about it? Mind your own fucking business.

5) They live together. They decorate their home. They watch television or listen to the radio or knit or play video games. They cook food. They eat.

Who does this affect? Retail outlets in the community who benefit from increased domestic goods sales (because, let's face it, couples consume more than individuals in just about every regard).

Does this impact your daily life? If you work at a retail outlet where they shop, sure.

What should you do about it? Mind your own fucking business.

6) They share benefits. House, insurance, 401k, cars. Just like a man and a woman would.

Who does this affect? No one that isn't already affected by the union of a man and a woman.

Does this impact your daily life? Are you impacted by marriage by a man and a woman in the same way? Then yes, and you should seek to abolish all marriage. Otherwise, no.

What should you do about it? Mind your own fucking business.

None of this computes for me. So I have tried to fall back on my early "churchgoing" life (which is code for "My parents dragged me somewhere I didn't want to be for two hours every Sunday, except when they didn't feel like going"). And in this attempt to understand based on past recollection and current explanation from my religious friends, it boils down to the following:

"The Bible says homosexuality is a sin. The Bible is the word of God. We are God's adherents. We must honor and respect the word of God. This means we stand against the union of people of the same gender."

I will share here a link to a fantastic resource which lists, with excruciating detail and research, the contradictions and fallacies in the Bible. The word of the almighty, the perfect, the all-knowing... Filled with contradictions. But ignore the actual facts for a minute.

These points are from a rather fantastic response to Dr. Laura, an ~~openly Christian~~ Orthodox Jewish (corrected, sorry) "therapist" with a nationally syndicated radio show who routinely quotes scripture to help callers with problems. They highlight quite a number of issues that "God's word" speaks against, and yet in our modern society, we've found ways around:

When I burn a bull on the altar as a sacrifice, I know it creates a pleasing odor for the Lord (Lev. 1:9). The problem is my neighbors. They claim the odor is not pleasing to them. How should I deal with this?
I would like to sell my daughter into slavery, as it suggests in Exodus 21:7. In this day and age, what do you think would be a fair price for her?
I know that I am allowed no contact with a woman while she is in her period of menstrual uncleanliness (Lev. 15:19-24). The problem is, how do I tell? I have tried asking, but most women take offense.
Lev. 25:44 states that I may buy slaves from the nations that are around us. A friend of mine claims that this applies to Mexicans but not Canadians. Can you clarify?
I have a neighbor who insists on working on the Sabbath. Exodus 35:2 clearly states he should be put to death. Am I morally obligated to kill him myself?
A friend of mine feels that even though eating shellfish is an abomination (Lev. 10:10), it is a lesser abomination than homosexuality. I don't agree. Can you settle this?
Lev. 21:20 states that I may not approach the altar of God if I have a defect in my sight. I have to admit that I wear reading glasses. Does my vision have to be 20/20, or is there some wiggle room here?

And here's Dan Savage's take on the matter, which I implore you, regardless of your religious beliefs, to watch -- if for no other reason than to take in data on the other side of the argument and actually have some information to form your points:

So yes, I don't get it. I don't get the hypocrisy, I don't get the insistence on putting your morals on other peoples' daily existence, I don't understand how beliefs -- which by nature belong solely to you and pertain only to whats in your mind, regardless of who else could relate to them -- can manifest themselves in actions against other people's lives WHICH DON'T IMPACT YOU WHATSOEVER.
I don't get it. Please, explain it to me. Give me a reason that doesn't start with "my beliefs" or "the Bible says" because neither of those things matter when it comes to the daily lives of people. Give me reasons. Give me plausible, fact-based logical reasons why homosexuals shouldn't be allowed to bond themselves in legal union and share their lives.
Just one. I beg of you. Because of all the stupidity in the world, even the stuff I cannot relate to one bit, this is one thing I simply cannot get my head around.

Gays Can't Marry In North Carolina, But Life Isn't Exactly Easy For Straight Couples, Either

2012-05-09T08:02:00.001-04:00

Last night, an amendment passed in North Carolina banning marriage for same-sex couples. Some people decry this as short-sighted at best, and completely bigoted, hateful, stupid, retarded, dumb, and unfair in general. I am one of those people, for all the reasons I outline here and here and here.

Now, heterosexual marriage laws are pretty straightforward in North Carolina. In fact, things are so lenient that, In North Carolina, it's completely legal for first cousins to get married ("Double Cousin" marriage, however, isn't okay... Whatever that is). And it's super easy to tie the knot, too. Current state law states that all a couple has to do to be married in North Carolina is check into a hotel and register as married.

Not if you're gay, of course. It doesn't matter how much you love one another, how loyal to one another you are, or how much you want the right to share benefits, property, responsibilities or just proclaim your bond publicly -- you cannot go to a hotel and declare yourself married and be married, gay folks. I'm sorry.

But that's where the ease of being a married man and a woman, no matter how closely blood-related, end in that state. When first cousins marry in North Carolina, they face a whole new set of challenges. There are a bevy of strange state laws in North Carolina that are on the books today which limit the freedoms and rights of married first cousins across the state. Of course, they apply to married non-relatives, non-married relatives and non-married non-relatives, too. But for the purposes of this article, which deals with restrictions vs. freedoms of a particular type of marriage, I'll be discussing in terms of the perfectly legal first cousin marriage.

First-cousin marriages can be dissolved if one of the two people is physically impotent. And, given the demographics of the turnout for yesterday's vote (which was a Republican Primary), this renders the vast majority of the marriages of people who voted for that stupid amendment illegal. Love each other? So what. Have kids? Doesn't matter. If you can't get it up, you can't keep the marriage up. You'd think that this law would be repealed by the true believers of the GOP, since, given the ratio of limp dicks in the Republican party, it is statically likely that every single male in Cialis and Viagra ads is Republican.

Old white people can buy pills to keep their marriage from dissolving when the male's penis cannot maintain erection. Unfortunately, there's no pill to allow same-sex couples to get married, period.

Married first cousins cannot sleep in the same bed in a hotel. State law in North Carolina dictate that couples staying overnight in hotel rooms must have a room with double beds at least two feet apart. Now, non-couples can sleep in the same bed. North Carolina has no motel-room-related laws about rampant out-of-wedlock sleeping, cuddling, dry-humping or out and out sex. But when they do have sex, there are rules governing what can go down (or, not go down, so to speak).

Married first cousins cannot have oral sex. The state prohibits the placing of mouths, tongues or, for the particularly talented, tonsils on or around the genitals of another person. Which is completely contradictory, given how much Amendment 1 sucks.

First cousins cannot have sex in any other position besides the missionary position. I suppose this would necessarily include oral sex, since it defies even my vast imagination to try to think of how one would accomplish that particular feat.

Married cousins cannot have sex in a churchyard. It disturbs the good God-fearing Christian Klan members lighting fires to crosses.

The Knights of the Ku Klux Klan can light crosses in protest of non-white non-straight people in churchyards in North Carolina. Same sex couples who want to commit their lives to each other cannot get married. That's fair.

Married cousins cannot drive through a cemetery for "pleasure." And you especially can't have non-missionary oral sex in the car while driving through a cemetery, since cemeteries are often located in churchyards. It occurs to me that the single most illegal act in North Carolina would be receiving a blow job while behind the wheel of a car being driven through a churchyard cemetery.

Married cousins cannot allow their dogs and cats to fight. It is against state law for dogs and cats to fight. Against state law. For dogs and cats to fight. There is a law prohibiting ubiquitous domestic animals of particular species from fighting. THIS IS A FUCKING LAW. North Carolina apparently has nothing more important to regulate than who can marry who and whether or not one of the oldest cliches in history can be proven true (or even allowed to happen).

Dogs can fight dogs. Cats can fight cats. But dogs and cats cannot fight. This makes this speech by Coastal Carolina coach Bennett Presser, discussing how his players need to be more like dogs while making strange, screechy cat sounds (and for some reason discussion screen doors) utterly illegal:\

Married first cousins have to pay a three dollar tax on all white goods. It's not easy being a bigot in North Carolina... Not if you want to be properly dressed, anyway. Members of the Klu Klux Clan have to pay an extra three dollar tax on their robes (and ostensibly, also their hoods, since they're not all one piece). An average family of a husband and a wife (cousins, of course) and their 10 children (also cousins, since cousins who have kids end up having cousins for kids) has to pay an extra $72 to attend meetings in proper Klan costume. Of course, they can't actually start the meeting while everyone's dressed, because state law mandates that organizations cannot hold their meetings while the members present are in costume -- another perfectly sensible state law.

In other news, Halloween parties in North Carolina really, really suck. Not genitals, though, that's illegal.

Married first cousins cannot sing off-key. It is a misdemeanor and can result in a fine and/or jail time. This isn't a problem for Ben Folds, Nina Simone, James Taylor, Southern Culture On The Skids, Superchunk, or the Squirrel Nut Zippers (all from North Carolina). But it's certainly an issue for one of my all-time favorite NC bands, Archers of Loaf, who -- while being fantastic -- have trouble staying on key:

Married first cousins cannot use elephants to plow cotton fields. I don't like that North Carolina limits marriage to one man and one woman. I don't like that they don't allow couples (even married blood relatives) to sleep in the same bed in a hotel room. I don't like that they don't allow joyrides through cemeteries or let people who may just love to sing do so off key.

But not being able to use an excessively large, incredibly difficult to import exotic Asian land mammal to plow cotton? But this is where I draw the fucking line. Seriously, North Carolina: Fuck you.

Write Now; Rage Later

2012-05-08T17:44:00.004-04:00

No matter how many tools there are in your emotional toolbox, no matter how many platitudes you have written on your dry erase board, no matter how much you talk things out with friends and loved ones... Some days, you just have rage in you. And you need to let it out.

The trick isn't to suppress it. That will damage you in the long run. The trick is to find a healthy way to release it.

Healthy doesn't necessarily mean "deemed by society to be healthy." Those methods you see on Dr. Oz are things like running a mile or lifting weights or hitting a heavy bag. But sometimes, you just hit whatever's nearest you. Sometimes, you pound the steering wheel while screaming at the top of your lungs. Sometimes, you go to the gun range and put 500 rounds through a large caliber firearm.

Would most people in a rational mood call those things healthy? Maybe. Maybe not.

But some things just aren't healthy. Bar fights. Screaming at people in public (even the ones who deserve it, like smokers who throw butts on the ground or people who yell at their kids). Punching walls and breaking your hand.

And I won't lie. Those things feel good. At the time, anyway.

But the ramifications... Not so much. The trick to finding that healthy way to release the rage really is a trick. You have to trick yourself into going somewhere that isn't right here, right now. You have to make yourself redirect that hostility and anger. You have to leave. You have to go somewhere safe.

It's hard. And the trick I've found that works is to write down, right then and there, what it is you want to do (hit someone in the face, punch the wall, scream, etc). Then head immediately to a safe place, read it again, and unleash holy hell on that steering wheel or heavy bag or what-have-you.

I've had to write a few things down in the past. It's hard. But it helps. I hope it helps you.

"YOU Don't Look Like An Art Student..."

2012-05-02T12:40:00.000-04:00

I began taking life drawing classes at the end of January. What makes this important is that, even though I haven't written too much about it, my entire adult life has been spent under the shadow of a ridiculous (but very real) phobia of drawing.

Thankfully, I've been getting past it the past few years, thanks to some gentle encouragement from just about everyone in my studio (and some not-so-gentle encouragement from my wife, who loves me and has been pushing me to do this for years, and has some rather vulgar things to say about the people in my past who got in my head and beat down the excited little artist in me years ago).

My first class was on my birthday, actually. They were a gift to myself. I finally decided, at 35 years old, that I was going to quit listening to voices from the past perpetually talking down to me in my head, and instead listen to the incredibly inspiring and encouraging voices that surround me now.

My way of doing that was to give myself the gift of learning to draw and paint. I get to do that, because I'm an adult. And being an adult means, with a few exceptions which are outlined in the codes of law in your particular municipality, you can do whatever the hell you want, and your family and teachers from school and people in your past can all go fuck themselves.

Of course, they don't need YOUR permission.. After all, they're adults. They can just up and fuck themselves whenever they want.

At any rate, I was walking into class last night. Out in front of the building were a group of art students on a break, smoking and talking and generally being art students on a break. The thing that always happens as you approach a group of people you don't know happened, where eye contact is made and a nod is given, and the conversation between them doesn't quite stop, but definitely quiets down a bit. There was a girl sitting on the flat wooden handrail going up the stairs, slightly reclined, enjoying a cigarette. I looked at her; she smiled.

"That's quite a precarious perch," I said, being friendly.

"I live dangerously," she replied, as if she was in a John Hughes movie.

We chuckled. I walked up the stairs past her. As I arrived to the entrance to the building, one of the guys in the group says, "Wow... YOU don't look like an art student..."

Emphasis on "you."

I don't look like an art student. I don't look like an art student. This guy doesn't think I belong here. I suppose his friends standing with him felt the same. And for whatever reason, he felt the need to say it aloud.

You know what I said in response? If you've been reading my stuff for any period of time, I bet you've got an idea.

I bet you think it was something like "Well then, what the fuck DO I look like to you? The janitor? I'm not sure if you've ever tried to plunge a toilet with an eighteen-by-twenty-four clipboard and some charcoal, but it doesn't work that well! Or wait -- do you think I look like a janitor who is also really stupid and forgot the correct tools? I didn't get the memo that there was a dress code to enter this building! Tell me, stick figure! Tell me what the fuck I look like! I'm excited to hear your assessment!" And so on.

But your idea is wrong.

"Eh," I said. And then I shrugged and walked in the door. I didn't even ask what he meant. His verbal photon torpedoes impacted on the surface. It wasn't until I got to the door of the classroom that it hit me, what had just happened. And you want to know the really confusing-yet-comforting part? I wasn't proud. I wasn't overjoyed. I wasn't even mildly amused.

I was happy.

Not "Oh, boy, cupcakes!" happy. The kind of happy you are when you've had a headache for hours, and then suddenly realize that the Tylenol worked. The pain is gone. But you're not dancing around celebrating, you're just happy the painful shit you had to put up with went away.

A few months ago? I would have taken those words like a dagger thrust into my guts, turned 90 degrees, and stabbed directly into my heart, popping it like a grape. "Get out of here, jock boy!" The words I put in their mouths would have said. "You're too big to express yourself visually and indulge in these fine arts of ours! And you're dressed all wrong! You have to look like Lisbeth from Girl With The Dragon Tattoo to enter these premises! Because that's how artists LOOK! Well, you know... Until next year, when there's a whole new rebellion aesthetic that's en vogue... But even then, you'll look so out of place, with your stupid rock t-shirt and your stupid regular pants and your stupid tennis shoes! And what's that on your arm? Anime tattoos!?! You're not allowed to like anime! You're not cool enough! You work out! You have to like sports! Get the hell out of here!"

But last night, "Eh" is all they got out of me. And that's all they deserve, regardless of how they meant it.

It's really rare that you get to have a moment where you realize, with resounding clarity, just how far you've progressed in your personal development. It's rarer still when you have to sit there and think about the moment and its impact on you, because your reactions now are so different from what they used to be. Those moments are when you realize you've changed.

But when your dismissal of something that used to bother you, is so natural and such a part of who you are now that you almost missed it? That's when you know you've grown.

Sick You (or, "A Beginner's Guide To Ego Destruction")

2012-05-01T06:55:00.004-04:00

"In every game and con there's always an opponent, and there's always a victim. The trick is to know when you're the latter, so you can become the former." -- Jake Green, Revolver

I have a friend who, by his own definition, is overweight and has a problem with food. He uses food to cope. Food is his comfort and his control device (among other things).

He has a job that at times can be high stress. When this happens, he'll feel run down and tired and in need of an energy boost. This is likely, if not definitely, due to his overeating and poor health. But it occurs during periods of high stress, so that triggers the need to control the situation, and to do so, he turns to his favorite food.

He loves brownies. He can eat an entire box of Little Debbie frosted brownies in a sitting. He often finds himself wanting brownies when things get tough. "I am tired and run down," he says to himself. "I need a brownie." He looks around the office -- there are no brownies. "I could get up and go to the store and get some brownies..."

There they are: two lies, back to back. He's tired and run down, and it has to be because of stress, and a brownie will fix it. But there's no brownies, and suddenly he has the energy to run to the store and get brownies.

That's how you know Sick You is trying to get control. Sick You tells you whatever you need to hear, moment to moment, to get you what you think you want. It will change its story to adapt to any argument you come up with. It is a liar. It is a conman. And the greatest con that it pulls is making you think that it is you.

But it's a voice in your head, right? So it must be you.

But it's not. It's Sick You. It's the worst part of your Ego. Not "ego" as in the pejorative we use to describe someone's thoughts about how great they are. This isn't "ego" as in "egotistical," this is Ego. Defining from the link above, the Ego comprises the organized part of the personality structure that includes defensive, perceptual, intellectual-cognitive, and executive functions.

In short, it's the rider on your horse. It's the pilot of your airplane. It has to use its strength and every trick in the book to control the much stronger, much more dangerous, much more powerful vehicle that is you.

Another friend of mine is an alcoholic. He described his conman's discussion with himself:

Take a drink. You need a drink. You're right, you don't need a drink. You just want one, so let's prove you don't need it. Yeah, see? You don't need it. You just want it. You deserve a drink for that.

So on and so forth. Of course, alcohol has a chemical addiction component that adds to the complication -- but the conversation that gives in, over and over? That's the Ego. It's going to do whatever it takes to get you into a place that avoids pain and suffering. It's going to tell you any story you need to hear. And it's not just alcohol. It's food. It's calling your ex. It's video games. It's anything and everything that you use as an avatar for control. By exerting the control in your life by using these things, you are being controlled by them. You are being controlled by Ego.

The greatest opponents hide in places you will never think to look. Your Ego hides behind pain. "This will cause you pain," the Ego says to you. "Fight against the pain." It wields pain as a shield. It convinces you that, if you realize you are at fault for something terrible, or if you back down from a challenge, or if you face a consequence, it will hurt. So justifications kick in. Stories you tell yourself. You cast yourself as the hero in your own epic novel. You can't be wrong. Whatever it is you did, there's a really good reason for it.

Sick You gains control.

These interviews with world renown psychiatrists sums Ego up very nicely:

(This reel is from the ending of the film Revolver, one of the worst action films ever written... But that's because it's not an action film. Don't let any of the reviews fool you. It's actually the single greatest metaphor for self-actualization and Ego destruction ever conceived, and I HIGHLY recommend it. More at the end of this post)

"The greatest con [the Ego] ever pulled, is making you believe it is you."

Sick You pulls this con every single day, day after day. And it's a liar. It'll tell you multiple lies, one after another, to help you avoid pain. To keep you from hurting. To keep "you" in control. It's your failsafe. It's your steam release valve. It's your pilot. But it's NOT you.

Next time you hear yourself talking to you in your mind, listen to what is being said. If it's drive is to avoid pain -- the pain of withdrawals, the pain of sadness, the pain of loneliness, the pain of the moment... Ask who it is that's speaking. Start THAT dialog. The more it hurts, the more likely it is that Sick You is trying to take control.

(If you're interested in giving Revolver a try, I highly recommend watching this clip series, which sums up the metaphor very neatly without giving away the ending of the film.)

Five Way Facebook Is Ruining Your Life

2012-04-30T16:29:00.003-04:00

1. Facebook is the graveyard of potential. People post about the idea they have, and get shot down. People post about the thing they want to do, and they get laughed at. People post about the workout they want to try or the job they want to apply for or the skill they want to learn, and they get shit on. So they give up, because it hurts and they're now discouraged.

Or...

People post about the idea they have, and they get lauded, praised and encouraged. People post about the thing they want to do, and they're patted on the back and "Liked." People post about the workout they want to try or the job they want to apply for or the skill they want to learn, and they're inundated with how-to links and information. So they give up, because posting about it and getting the reaction for the idea was just enough satisfaction for the ego that they no longer feel like they need to do the work.

2. Facebook has become your stream of consciousness. When you used to lay in bed while everyone else was asleep (or, if you were alone) and have thoughts about how lonely things were, or how much you hate the current political whatever, or how much you like Nutella, that stuff floated into and then back out of your brain. Now, it's on Facebook, written in ink on the internet permanently for the world to see.

Is this a problem? Yes and no. It's not really the same issue as insulting someone on the internet and not being able to erase it, or hurting your employment potential by posting pictures of yourself naked drinking from a beer bong or whatever. It's a problem in that our thoughts are not our own anymore. There's not much room for contemplation. Expression takes over. Everything has to not only be captured, but shared.

The impulse to let everyone else in the world know what's in your head isn't even about letting everyone else in the world know it, it's just about getting it out there. And that leads to a complete loss of individuality and self-awareness. How can you consider the nature of yourself when people are commenting on every thought you have?

3. Facebook is the ultimate enabler for the drug of validation... And the cause of the worst withdrawals. This goes hand in hand with Facebook being your stream of consciousness. Every little thing you think is clever or interesting or noteworthy or funny that has come out of your head is now being judged by everyone else in the form of likes. Now, you're getting a real-time running update of your own self-worth based on how large the number is of people who clicked a button as a reaction to what you said.

People's comments drive your feelings of self worth. You're opening yourself up to them in an environment free from actual accountability. And while all the positivity and likes and great comments feel good and aren't in and of themselves harmful, the act of constantly seeking approval definitely is. And it's getting worse. The larger your friend base, the more popular you feel. The more comments and shares and likes your posts get, the smarter and more interesting you feel. Until one day, something doesn't perform the way you thought it would. You get frustrated. You get angry. And then, you start craving that validation. You start feeling the aches and pain and headaches and lethargy that come with depression. Your day is ruined.

Or, just as bad, something you posted gets a ton of reaction. It goes viral. People adore it. You spend your entire day watching as the meter ticks upward and shares and likes flood in. You have now lost an afternoon or a day to staring at your validation meter climbing ever upward. Your day is ruined --although you may not feel like it is at the time. But it is, because you just engaged in the digital equivalent of spending an entire day stoned in an opium den.

4. Facebook feels like work. So much so, that you have substituted actual productivity with it. You share charitable posts about charitable acts and you feel as if you've actually engaged in charity. You share news of atrocities taking place in your town, city, state, country, or the world, and feel like you've actually done something to help. You click "Like" and feel like that tally adds up to something worth a damn. And if you take the "graveyard of potential" issue with this one, you have a two-edged sword of issues.

5. Facebook takes all your time. There's just so much going on at all times, and you have to keep up with it all...

* * * * *

Facebook is all of these things... And yet, it's not evil. It's not even marginally bad. It's just a piece of software. Facebook is no more responsible for your lack of productivity, addiction to validation, loss of motivation or enraged vitriol over current events regarding politics and religion than video games are responsible for violence.

Facebook's not your problem. It's you, baby. It's always been you.

Thinking Facebook is to blame for someone cheating on their spouse or your miserable mood is the same as thinking that buying the new workout machine or program du jour is what's finally going to get you in shape. It's not. You have the world's greatest piece of exercise equipment right outside your front door. It's the road, and the fact that you aren't walking or running on it every day proves this point.

I'm not saying "Get off of Facebook." I'm saying "You, like everyone else, are a validation junkie, and you need to put that shit in check." Facebook's just one part of your problem. It might be a very good place to start solving it. Just like putting down the bottle is a great place for alcoholics to start.

On Confidence

2012-04-29T23:13:00.002-04:00

The person who says "Fuck everyone! I don't care what they think!" usually does. A lot.

It's an offensive defense. It's talking loud enough that it drowns out the voices in their heads that say "Oh, but you do... You do."

By boasting how much you don't care what others think, you're actually allowing their thoughts to control you. If you didn't actually care what they think, you wouldn't care that they know how much you don't care.

Confidence isn't not caring what other people think. Confidence is to not let what other people think change you. Every story I write, every picture I draw, every site I design, every idea I conceive... I care a LOT what other people think about them. I care that they'll like them. I care that they'll enjoy them. I care that they'll react well to them. Any artist, performer or worker who tells you otherwise is lying.

Everyone cares what other people think about them and the things they do. It's human. Somewhere deep inside, you care. I care. We all care. Confidence is staring down the thoughts of others about who you are, what you're doing or how you're doing it, and saying "this will work." Confidence is knowing there will be consequences and doing whatever it is you set out to do regardless.

You might be wrong. No one said doing something with confidence would necessarily equate to doing it right. But without confidence, whatever it is you're doing doesn't actually belong to you. It belongs to everyone you're trying to please. Your words, your actions, your behavior... All controlled by the invisible strings being pulled by everyone around you.

Cut the strings. Do what you do; be who you are. Do so with confidence. Let people react and let them own those reactions. You own your moments.

214 Steps To Becoming Happy

2012-04-28T20:20:00.000-04:00

Stop comparing yourself to others.
See step 1.
See step 2
See step 3
See step 4
See step 5
See step 6
See step 7
See step 8
See step 9
See step 10
See step 11
See step 12
See step 13
See step 14
See step 15
See step 16
See step 17
See step 18
See step 19
See step 20
See step 21
See step 22
See step 23
See step 24
See step 25
See step 26
See step 27
See step 28
See step 29
See step 30
See step 31
See step 32
See step 33
See step 34
See step 35
See step 36
See step 37
See step 38
See step 39
See step 40
See step 41
See step 42
See step 43
See step 44
See step 45
See step 46
See step 47
See step 48
See step 49
See step 50
See step 51
See step 52
See step 53
See step 54
See step 55
See step 56
See step 57
See step 58
See step 59
See step 60
See step 61
See step 62
See step 63
See step 64
See step 65
See step 66
See step 67
See step 68
See step 69
See step 70
See step 71
See step 72
See step 73
See step 74
See step 75
See step 76
See step 77
See step 78
See step 79
See step 80
See step 81
See step 82
See step 83
See step 84
See step 85
See step 86
See step 87
See step 88
See step 89
See step 90
See step 91
See step 92
See step 93
See step 94
See step 95
See step 96
See step 97
See step 98
See step 99
See step 100
See step 101
See step 102
See step 103
See step 104
See step 105
See step 106
See step 107
See step 108
See step 109
See step 110
See step 111
See step 112
See step 113
See step 114
See step 115
See step 116
See step 117
See step 118
See step 119
See step 120
See step 121
See step 122
See step 123
See step 124
See step 125
See step 126
See step 127
See step 128
See step 129
See step 130
See step 131
See step 132
See step 133
See step 134
See step 135
See step 136
See step 137
See step 138
See step 139
See step 140
See step 141
See step 142
See step 143
See step 144
See step 145
See step 146
See step 147
See step 148
See step 149
See step 150
See step 151
See step 152
See step 153
See step 154
See step 155
See step 156
See step 157
See step 158
See step 159
See step 160
See step 161
See step 162
See step 163
See step 164
See step 165
See step 166
See step 167
See step 168
See step 169
See step 170
See step 171
See step 172
See step 173
See step 174
See step 175
See step 176
See step 177
See step 178
See step 179
See step 180
See step 181
See step 182
See step 183
See step 184
See step 185
See step 186
See step 187
See step 188
See step 189
See step 190
See step 191
See step 192
See step 193
See step 194
See step 195
See step 196
See step 197
See step 198
See step 199
See step 200
See step 201
See step 202
See step 203
See step 204
See step 205
See step 206
See step 207
See step 208
See step 209
See step 210
See step 211
See step 212
Stop looking at lists for guidance on how to be happy, get off the internet, put on some good music, draw or dance or paint or pick up a guitar or otherwise create something, and for fucks sake, don’t compare what you create to things created by others.

Give That Kid The Ball, Man...

2012-04-27T15:47:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, the internet got all up in a tizzy about this story, where two Cialis-commercial stars during their "leading-up-to-the-moment-you-never-know-when-will-strike-and-since-you're-old-and-your-dick-is-broken-you-need-pills" scene right before they ostensibly fuck, got a fly ball and took pictures with it while a crying toddler at his first baseball game went without:

People all over (especially in the comments of the story) were yelling one way or another -- half of the internet said the couple who got the ball are the worst human beings ever, and the other half screamed their heads off about entitlement and teaching children lessons and brats and what-have-you. And now, there's an interview with the parents who are saying they rejected the offer of the ball, and they're trying to teach their son that he doesn't get everything he wants.

Bull. Fucking. SHIT.

None of that matters. The moment that ball ended up in that old man with a limp dick's hands, he should have smiled, cheered, and handed it to the kid. Period, point blank, end of story.

If it was me, the situation would be thus: I'm a grown man at a baseball game. I can go out and buy as many baseballs as I want. I can go to hundreds of games with the money I earn as an adult. Magic and whimsy are things I have to actively search for and make space in my life to enjoy.

That's a little boy at a baseball game. A fly ball lands near me, kid gets the ball. That's how it is for a real man.

Now, if it was Hank Aaron's world record setting home run ball, it'd be a definite choice... I'd be torn. And I can't honestly say that I'd hand that piece of history over to the kid, because I think I'd hand that piece of history over to Hank Aaron to do with what he wants. But anything less than that, you give that kid an experience he'll never forget, no matter how big a fucking brat he is.

That story isn't about the kid. It's about the man. And that man is a limp-dicked shallow fake-tanned selfish rag of a person. He's certainly no man.

And even if that spineless guy couldn't find it in his heart to hand the kid the ball because he wanted his over-plastic-surgeried chick to get it, if that woman had a single ounce of decency, she'd have handed it over to the sad, screaming, upset child. And sure, they say the ball was offered to the kid... But look at the video. They didn't hand it to the kid when it happened. They didn't offer at any point during the first clip. By the end of that clip, the opportunity to be heroes (or, at the very least, not be douchebags) is gone. After that period of time, offering the ball isn't about making a magical moment for a child, it's about saving face.

For every moment I look at the world with wonder and think to myself how magical it is that such grandeur and beauty exists, there are two selfish fucks ready to spill fake tan bronzer all over it and darken things.

***UPDATE***

My friend Heidi just pointed me to this video, where a kid drops a fly ball, another kid gets it, and once he realizes what happened, goes and hands it to the crying boy who dropped it:

THAT IS HOW IT'S DONE, people. That young boy is ten times the man that the Cialis guy is.

Sins Of The Past (Or, "Those Dicks From High School That Friend You On Facebook")

2012-04-25T07:31:00.003-04:00

You know the drill:

Spend your childhood and teenage years in relative isolation, liking things no one understands and taking heaps of shit for it from most, if not all, of the school
Leave school, experience the world, grow as a person, perhaps follow your dreams and do great things you dreamed of doing during those lonely years
Join Facebook
Get "friend" requests from people you remember very clearly not wanting to be your friend back then
Stare at the screen.
Bite lip.
Growl.

8. And then you

Some people begrudgingly "friend" the person, trying to be the bigger person. Some people deny the request with an earnest "fuck you" and a celebratory shot of whatever beverage is right in front of them (if you're reading my writing, it's likely caffeinated and has a name like JOLT or BAWLS or RED BULL because I tend to cater to people just like me, and that's the kind of stuff I drink. All. Day. Long.) .

This isn't really about the choice you make. It's an exploration about that moment right before you make the choice.

Here's the thing: kids are terrible little organisms. They're awful to each other. But they're kids. I'll admit, It's really, really hard sometimes to see a face from high school on Facebook and not go "You know, fuck you, you were AWFUL to me and the only reason you didn't bully my friends is because you knew I'd bash you. You don't know me anymore. Go change oil or mow lawns or whatever it is you do now and fuck off."

But there's the rub: they don't know me (well, outside of the stuff I put out there for people to read and watch and such), but I don't know them, either. If they're anything like me at all, they've changed, too. I've grown to the point where I have the courage to try new things and put my projects out in the world, despite hearing my entire life that they're pipe dreams (at best -- sometimes, I heard that they were stupid ideas that would never work). I grew strong. I didn't let what I heard all day long define me. How do I know they haven't grown in similar ways?

That's not to say that I have to give every single person who laughed at me in school a chance to make recompense. The truth is, I don't want to. The memories were hard enough to get past, I don't feel like I owe anyone the pain it causes to go digging them back up by involving myself with them. But more times than not, they're just as resentful of how they were -- if they're actually grown up. And it's really unfair to castigate them for being immature when they were, in fact, immature.

That's what immature means. We weren't mature. We were kids and teenagers. We behaved accordingly.

It's charming to cast ourselves as the heroes in our tales and feel like we were all mature beyond our years, which would make acting like children a choice instead of a behavior innate in the process of growing up. But it's bullshit. You were awkward. They were awkward. Youth is awkward for all of us, and when you shove us all into the same building, pecking orders are going to form. Groups are going to coalesce. Divisions will take place.

We're humans. It's what we do.

That doesn't make it okay, it just explains what happened. Still, with today's advancements in technology and their rapid expansion into the lives of everyone (not just us weirdos, who used to own the internet exclusively), it's something we're going to have to face down. Because here they are, everyone we thought we left behind. They've found us. So we get the chance to stare at our past and decide if we're going to let it define us, whether we like it or not.

How your choice determines if your past controls you is an individual thing. Some people were horrifically treated in school and the decline and blocking of everyone they used to know is absolutely a fine way to treat it. Some folks weren't horrifically treated, but they certainly weren't popular, liked, understood or accepted. And now, they're living their adult lives in relative peace and the last thing they really want is to go back to that time and have to relive, however briefly, the feelings of being alone and isolated and told they don't belong.

I certainly belong to the second group. And the way I've chosen to deal with it is to just allow anyone who reaches out to reach out, because slapping their hands away is engaging in exactly the same behavior they engaged in when I reached out to them all those years ago. And while I'm not better than anyone, I'm certainly better than that.

Still, there's no fucking way you'll get me to go to a reunion.

"Do Good."

2012-04-24T20:10:00.000-04:00

Sunday night, I posted a story about my interaction with a kid that works out at my gym. He feels like a "weirdo" and has no friends at school. I told him the truth about being weird: it rules. Being weird has given me three distinct careers (web development, author and now world-reknown anime expert). Being weird means you're being yourself amongst a crowd of followers. It's a fantastic thing.

The story exploded across the internet. As I write this, it's been featured on Reddit, Huffington Post, Hacker News and all over Twitter and Facebook.

I was a bit shocked, but not surprised. It is a story I think that resonates with every single one of us who felt alone and were ostracized in school (or in college, or at the job we work at now). It's a hard thing; this human condition crap. If you don't fit the mold, you're cast out from the herd. And we as animals crave interaction. Sure, we learn to live with a deprivation of it, but at our core, we all long to be understood.

But honestly, I had no idea it was going to blow up like this. And I'm so very honored that people enjoyed it and wanted to share it. And I have to admit, it's a validation of an idea I started incorporating into this blog (very quietly) in January:

"Do Good."

About a year ago, I joined up with Studio Revolver in Atlanta. I became very close friends with Casey Edwards. Casey is one hell of an interesting guy. His illustration work is AMAZING, he's super bright, and he has the keenest grasp on the human condition of anyone I've ever met.

Casey doesn't really say "goodbye" when he is departing a place or ending a phone call. Instead, he says "Do Good."

For a while, I thought that it was a very nice sentiment. But then at some point, it started sticking with me past the point I left the conversation. It really started to sink in. I'd find myself thinking about the words themselves when I was interacting with others. I always felt like I was doing good when I interacted with the world at large.

But it started really ringing in my head. "Do good." I'd find myself snagging floating grocery carts from parking lots and walking them to the front of the store. I pick up random litter. I clean up messes that aren't exactly mine. Just little things. And I'm sure that I did those little things before I met Casey -- like I said, I think I'm a pretty decent guy. But by putting that phrase in my head -- "Do Good" -- it really made the concept stick.

In January, I made "Do Good" my mission statement for all of my writing. If you go back and read my stuff from 2002 until January, you'll see... Well, at first, you'll see really horrible writing. But for the most part, you'll see attempt after attempt to make people laugh. There are a few bits in my books and throughout this blog where you can see sentiment seep in. And people have been relating to my weirdness through my strange stories and blog posts since I started.

But in January, I shifted the lens a bit and really focused on doing good. I started writing about matters of the human condition that I experience, hoping that people can take them and relate to them and know that things get better; that they're not alone (I summarized some of that in this post about why I write -- it's sappy, so get ready for that if you choose to read it).

I think that I would have had the same talk with the same boy in the same situation even if I hadn't taken the "Do Good" mission statement forward, because I'm still the same guy I was. But I do feel those words echo in me whenever I think about things I want to take on and do and say and share. I want the world to know the amazingness of Akira. I want everyone to understand that we are all human at our core, and as such, we're really all very much the same.

I want young people to know that right now, life sucks because they're living from a very limited set of experiences, under a very stringent set of rules, in a very small cross section of society. I want them to know that they're GOING to get free of it if they want to, and when they do, they're going to be so thankful that they had the experience of sticking with what they love despite being misunderstood (or, worse, hated) for loving it, because it's going to lead them to something amazing.

And you helped share that yesterday and today. And I thank you very, very much. I hope that sharing the story of Bradley and his weirdness helped you to Do Good by a young person (or adult) you know. I hope it helped me Do Good by you. And at the end of the day, I hope that whatever our interactions may be in life, be they friendship or handshakes at conventions or just you reading what I write here on the blog -- I hope they Do Good in your life, and that you'll in turn Do Good in someone else's.

Big Book Announcement Thingy (I'm Mad As Hell And I'm Not Going To Take It Anymore)

2012-04-23T11:49:00.000-04:00

I just sent this to my Uber Inner Circle list (the email list that people who buy my crap end up on if they want to be -- do you want to be? look at the bottom of the quoted message for the subscribe link). It sums everything up nicely. The only addition I'll make is on pricing:

Preorder pricing is honored. The price will not increase.

After launch, the paperback book's cover price will have to go up to $21.95 because it's nearly 800 pages (instead of 270ish).

But the ebook price will remain $2.99.

Let me know what you think in the comments.

********

Penguin Is Out Of Their Minds. 

I'm furious (but happy, but furious) and here's why

So here's the deal: Last night (Sunday Apr 22), I saw that my 2nd book was only $1.20 on Amazon. Last time that happened, everyone jumped on it and we "hacked" Amazon's top seller list by making a 3 year old book #2 on the top 25 books. It was CRA-ZAY. So, I facey-tweet+'d it out to everyone, and right now, it's #31 on the bestseller list (if you want to participate, http://tinyurl.com/mibook2 -- here you go :) )

And all along, people have asked me about Kindle editions, and why my books aren't on e-readers. The truth is, it is -- but Penguin, in its infinite wisdom (meaning, price fixing) decided to charge $12.99 for a digital copy that costs them zero dollars and zero cents ($0.00) to distribute.

I fought this. I didn't win. It's still $12.99. So I delisted it with the 2nd book and attached it to the first, out of print book. This hid it for the most part, and kept people from being what I consider to be ripped off.   But today in 2012, e-readers are so much more popular than they were when the book came out. They're even more popular than just a year ago when we played this trick on Amazon the first time.

I don't know what sparked it in me this time, but I'm angry. It pisses me off that people who want my book have to pay such an insane price to have a bunch of 1's and 0's on their e-reader. Now, I can't take down the digital version of the 2nd MI book. I can't do anything about it, actually. That aspect of the contract I signed, i can't touch. And I can't put out my own competing version of that book at a more reasonable price.

So, whatcha gonna do about it, Joe? 

No, seriously, whatcha gonna do?

Funny you should ask. What I've decided to do with your permission: I'm going to turn the 3rd MI book into an "omnibus" edition. I'm going to take the entire first book, the entire 2nd book, and the contents of the entire 3rd book and stick them out there as the "Really Really Mentally Incontinent" book. This will get me around all of the copyright gobbledygook that keeps me from reprinting the first book or releasing my own edition of the 2nd book on Kindle.

The good news -- you've already bought it [if you preordered, that is --Joe]. Even though the pagecount is about to triple, the price you've paid is going to guarantee you a copy of the book, both physically and digitally.

The "eh, not that bad" news -- it may take a tiny bit longer to get this together, but the truth is, it won't take THAT long. Adding the chapters and contents from the first two books is going to increase the overall thickness of the book, which will cause a slight redesign of the cover (since the spine width is part of the design), and it's going to take a bit to format the interior template to accomodate all the new material. But to make all of my writing affordibaly accessible to everyone who wants it, I think it's worth it.

But I want your OK. Please reply to me (if you don't mind) and let me know what you think.

Ok, I'm done now. You can delete this.

Your Pal Joe The Peacock

About this list: you bought or preordered a thingy of mine. I love you for it. That's how you ended up on this list. If you want to leave it, feel free to do so, but you'll miss out on the sharing of secrets and blood rituals. And maybe sometimes stories.

Unsubscribe <> from this list.

Not subscribed? Want to be? You can sign up here.

Send me mail:
Joe The Peacock's Uber VIP List

PO Box 792
Lovejoy, GA30257

******

UPDATE 12:37PM:

Some debate has opened up on the Facebook thread about this discussion. I'd like to clarify a few points.

Dorothy Sasser wrote:

I'm gonna instantly become REALLY unpopular here but... I have a friend who works in the publishing industry. and like you, she rants about the pricing models they've chosen to follow. So while she agrees, pricing is out of whack: distributing digital material through commercial venues isn't free. It's not. It's servers, it's bandwidth, it's payment tracking technology, yada, yada, yada. And you know this Joe - ain't NUTHING in life free. So, if it's not worth what they're charging to use their backend, then go the Louis CK route and do it on your own (entirely possible, btw), price it as you see appropriate and reward your readers that way for their devotion. But don't rant about your deals with the behemoths because they charge for their service, or wax on about how to 'screw the man' out of the deal you signed; that's disingenuous.

My reply:

Not to be rude, but being honest, you don't know what you're arguing about. I'm not happy with the pricing on an ebook version of a deal i signed -- they did not tell me what that pricing would be when I signed the deal, only that they were planning on a digital release. Once the deal was signed, I still didn't know what the price was. Only after the book was released did I find out what they were charging ($12.99).

Now, the publisher does a lot for a writer. They edit, they promote, they package, they ship, they buy shelf space (yes, buy), and they send checks. The price they pay the writer is sometimes too low, sometimes fair, and sometimes a shitty "writer" makes a fortune for crap (see: Snooki). But that's all PRINT.

Now, you're right -- it's not FREE to publish a digital version of a print book. The cost to lay out the digital version is... Well, nothing. Unless you fraction out the time spent putting it together for print, which is disingenuous, because the template for print and the template for digital release are pretty much already made and to convert takes seconds.

There IS a cost to send the file to Amazon, and that is the cost of internet to the building. Divide that across how many books they digitally upload per month, and you're looking at a cost of below one penny.

So, yes, it's not free, but it's infinitesimally small. So I just called it "free." At any rate, there's no shipping of physical goods, no shelf space, and no retail outlet. It's a digital file. It costs nearly nothing to distribute. To charge $12.99 for it is fine in a free economy, but I personally think it's robbery, and I won't stand for it.

And to clarify, i'm not "sticking it to the man" -- I'm sticking to my principles. There's a difference, even though sometimes the two do overlap.

Dorothy Sasser's reply:

I know more than you think, Joe. That said, if your complaint w/the publisher is no control over the price of your product, then you need to control the distribution mechanism and not rant about screwing the people you signed up with. Dustin has the right idea. But I can't stand up behind the notion that you're actively looking for ways to screw the people you signed with, because you didn't have a say in the pricing - and unless I'm misinterpreting what you wrote (which is possible), you never did have a say.

Regardless, I wish you success in book sales. :)

My reply:

I'm not trying to screw anyone. I'd say that, through collusion and price fixing, they're trying to screw everyone. I'm just trying to make something that is already available for free on my website (yes, even the 2nd book material which is printed and published by Penguin) easily distributed to Amazon Kindles and other e-readers. The current gatekeepers charge to high a price, and I have the right to distribute that material in its current parts how I wish, so I'm wishing.

Agree or disagree, Dorothy is brining up some very valid points in the ongoing conversation that is big publishing vs. self publishing. The conversation continues here if you'd like to join (and be nice).

"That's Why You Don't Have Any Friends."

2012-04-22T21:01:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, I was at the gym.

...Don't worry. This isn't a gym story. This is a story about a boy who needed to hear something important. But it happened at the gym. So that's why I started with the bit about being in the gym. If you were hoping for a gym story... Well, you could call this one if you really wanted to. And if you hate gym stories, you don't have to worry, the ones calling it a gym story are just really desperate for a gym story.

Anyway, I was at the PLACE THE STORY HAPPENED WHICH WAS THE GYM. And I was working out, as I am usually doing while I'm at the gym. And as happens over the years spent going to the same gym, relationships form and people get to know each other, and groups form and jokes are shared and camaraderie takes place. And it was the same this day.

I was talking with a group of folks who are regularly in during the afternoons on Saturday. Among them was a 14 year old boy named Bradley (not his real name). He's a great kid. He's been coming to the gym with his parents for the past two or so years. While his parents walk around the track upstairs, he spends his time learning how to lift weights with us big guys. When he first started, he was wiry and awkward. He's still pretty awkward; being a teenager and all. But us big guys, we set him on a good path to maintain a healthy level of fitness.

We were cutting up and laughing. The guys made fun of me for liking hockey. "That's a Canadian sport, isn't it?" one asked. "What are you, part Canadian?"

"Only the part that likes real sports," I replied. "And maple syrup."

"I still don't get why you don't like college football," another asked. "You're in Georgia. SEC is bigger than NFL here."

"What can I say?" I asked. "Southerners like their little league sports. I prefer watching pros."

And so it goes, about the same way every Saturday. The topics change -- what cars are best, what sports are better than other sports, what teams are better than other teams, what shows are better than other shows (but never politics or religion -- something you learn really fast in a gym is to never bring up the two topics most likely to incite violence in a building filled with metal bars and heavy plates). Someone has a divergent interest, everyone else jumps on it, and laughs are had. And invariably, the topic turns to girls.

Husbands laugh about the young singles and their stories about weekend endeavors. Singles laugh at the guys stuck at home with their ball and chain. Whispers are shared about which girls in the gym are hot; warnings are issued by the more experienced about the dangers of dating people from your gym or your job (short version: it doesn't matter how hot the guy or girl is, it's stupid. Unless marriage is assured, don't do it.)

One of the guys asked Bradley if he had a girlfriend. If there were dirt on the gym floor, he'd have been kicking it.

"Nah, no girlfriend," he replied.

"Young strapping lad like you? Nonsense," I said, knowing fully well that not only did he not have a girlfriend, he'd have absolutely no clue what to do with one if he did. Because I was him once. But as a grown up looking out for a younger kid, you have to act like it's completely ridiculous that girls don't flock to him. It's the right thing to do.

"I asked a girl out to the spring dance," he said. He then said something that hit me hard. "She called me lame and said, 'That's why you don't have any friends. Because you're weird.'"

The words rang in my head. Those exact words -- I remember hearing them. A lot. He didn't explain why she thought he was weird. He didn't have to. I knew the feeling very, very well.

"Come on now," one of the guys said. "Don't let her get to you."

"No, she's right," he said. "I don't have any friends. Not at school, anyway." His face got really sad. "I really am weird."

I was weird, back before I realized I wasn't. And it resulted in some extremely lonely times in my young life. My entire elementary and junior high school tenure was spent with no friends. In tenth grade, I found my tiny group of four friends (you can read about some of our little adventures in this story, which is to date the only thing I've written that came out exactly how I wanted it to, and that I am proud of).

I dated the wrong girl (they're all the wrong girl, until you find the right one). The four of us fractured into two groups of two -- Mike and I split off from Walter and Rod (not his real name, by the way -- Rod was the name I gave Jay Naylor, who is actually a very famous furry cartoonist. Yup: not only did I go to high school with a furry, he was one of my best friends. That in and of itself is a long and crazy story I'll tell one day, but not today. Today I'm telling a not-gym story).

Then one day, Mike got tired of my bullshit and said those words to me. "That's why you don't have any friends," he said at very high volume. He deserved to say it -- I'd just told him to go fuck himself when he tried to explain why my girlfriend at the time was screwing someone behind my back. I called him every name in the book. So he bailed and joined up with Walter and Jay, while I spent the last few weeks of my high school career alone. Even the furry had more friends than I did.

And now, 17 years later, life is fantastic. I belong to a studio full of amazing people who were all weird, just like me. I get to meet freaks from across the nation who all love anime and comics, just like me. I get to talk to people who read my weird stories about my weird life and relate to it, because just like me, they're weird.

There's thousands -- no, hundreds of thousands -- of us. All weird. All strange. All over, everywhere.

We all went to school and hated everyone because they didn't understand us. We dealt with the bullying and the isolation and the feeling that we were the weird ones. You want to know what's weird? Spending hundreds of dollars on clothes and shoes and purses that everyone else thinks is cool. Spending hours of your life doing things that everyone else is doing because it's cool. Liking the bands that everyone else likes because you're a loser if you don't.

You want to know what's weird? Hiding who you are just to have the company of people you don't even like. That's weird.

I looked him straight in the eye. My normally grinning mouth turned stern. With as serious a tone as I could muster, I said "Listen to me, okay? What I'm about to say is something I want you to take in and think about and really hold on to."

He nodded. "Okay, he said."

"This isn't just conversation, this is important," I said. "You listening?"

He nodded again. "I'm listening," he replied with a look that convinced me that he was.

I took a deep breath. "Right now, you're in high school in a small suburban town," I started.

He nodded.

"Everyone you know looks the same and acts the same," I explained. "They may dress differently from each other or belong to different crowds, but they're all the same. Hipsters, brainiacs, jocks, so-called 'geeks' -- they're all so caught up with not being left out that they're changing who they are to fit in with whoever it is that will accept them.

"When you show up and you're not like that, it scares them," I continued. "They don't know what to do with you, because they have no idea what it's like to think for themselves. So they try to make YOU feel like the loser, because there's more of them doing what they're doing than there are of you. In such a small group of small minds, the nail that sticks up gets hammered down.

"To them, you are weird," I said. "But weird is good. No, screw that -- weird is great! Being weird to someone just proves that you are being you, which is the most important thing you can ever be. There's nothing wrong with you. There's something wrong with them. They can't understand what it's like to be themselves, much less what it's like to be you."

He smiled a little. "You really think that?" he asked.

I laughed. "Dude, look at me!" I said. "I'm 300 pounds of ex-football player covered in cartoon and comic book tattoos, who builds websites and tours the world talking to people about his anime cel collection. Trust me, I know all about being weird."

He shrugged and said "It just sucks, you know?"

"Oh, I know," I said with a smile. "And here's the little bit of bad news -- It's gonna suck for a little while longer. But one day, you'll get out of school and go somewhere besides the small town you're in and you're going to discover that there are groups of people just like you -- not that they do what you do or act how you act, but that they refused to change who they are to fit in, and that makes them just like you. And when you find them, you're finally going to feel at home.

"It might be college, or it might be visiting another city. Hell, it might even be on the internet. But at some point you're going to find them. And it's going to be great."

He smiled. "That would be awesome," he said.

"It WILL be awesome!" I replied. "But until then, it's going to be lonely and frustrating. You're going to do stupid things thinking it's going to impress them or change their opinion of you, and it won't, and you're going to get sad. Just know that it does end. It ends the day you realize that you never wanted to be them in the first place, because they are losers. They lost the battle to be themselves. You're the winner."

I paused for a second, because it had just occurred to me that, at some point during my little motivational speech, his parents had walked up and were waiting a short distance behind him. I presumed it was to give him enough space to let the conversation be his own, but I knew they had heard me, because when I looked at them, they both nodded and smiled.

So I put the cap on the whole thing. "And I know your parents are right there, but I'm going to say it anyway: Fuck. Them."

I kept my eyes on him, but could see just behind him that his mom reacted a little to my vulgarity. His dad placed his hand on her shoulder and just let it be.

The guys in the group all nodded and agreed with me, and began talking to him about their perspectives on the situation (which, in previous conversations over the years, I knew to be similar to mine). His parents came up to me and thanked me for talking to him.

"He just thinks the world of you guys," his mom said. "He talks about coming here all the time to work out with you."

"He really needed to hear that," his dad said. "We try to tell him that high school is just that way, but you know how it is..."

"No teenager wants to listen to his parents," I said. "Hell, I'm an adult and I still don't."

They both laughed.

"He's a great kid," I said. "He's going to be just fine in a few years."

"Well, thank you," the dad said. "It means a lot."

"Hey," I said with a shrug, "That's what we're here for. We're his friends."

****************

Hey, by the way: my 2nd book is on sale at Amazon again for $1.28! Remember last time it was that low? You guys made it #2 on the Amazon best-seller list, and it blew peoples' minds! Want to do it again? If not, no biggie, but it's a great opportunity to fuck with the system (again) :)

The Origin And History Of Iced Coffee

2012-04-17T05:56:00.000-04:00

You know, it's strange. Even Wikipedia doesn't know the origin and history of iced coffee. But I do.

One day, there were two very bored extremely rich marketing executives sitting in an office, spinning around in their chairs and throwing thousand-dollar pens into the ceiling to see if they'd stick.

"What do you want to do today?" said one.

"I dunno, man," said the other.

Now, these two guys have been friends since grade school. In second grade, they both went to the principle's office for taping a "kick me" sign on the teacher. In sixth grade, they were put in detention for selling "pool passes" to a pool that didn't exist for, as it just so happened, the exact amount that lunch cost. In eighth grade, they were suspended from school for selling candy from their lockers between classes for an extreme markup, and again in tenth grade for selling porn the same way.

And now, they're sitting in a corner office on the 47th floor of a Madison Ave. marketing agency, bored out of their minds.

One sighed.

"Yeah," the other said. "I think I'm out of ideas."

"It's hard, man," the first said. "We've already gotten morons the world over to buy stuff that is absolutely asinine and made them convince themselves it's 'cool' -- Uggs, Crocs, capri pants..."

"We put glittery Victoria's Secret angel wings on the back of t-shirts and convinced small-dicked rednecks that it means they're MMA fighters--"

"That was GENIUS, my friend," the other said.

"Thank you," the first replied, taking a slight bow in his chair.

The two sat silent for a moment. All that could be heard was the sound of a light rapping of knuckles on the mahogany desk between them. With a sigh, the first one reached out and grabbed his coffee mug. He lifted it to his mouth and took a sip -- "UGH..." he said, squinting hard and gagging.

"Let it sit too long again?" said the second.

"Yeah," the first said. "Foul."

Suddenly, the second one sat bolt upright in his chair and said "Wait! I got it!"

"What?" the first asked.

"That!" the second exclaimed.

"...What?!?" the first queried.

The second placed his left elbow on the desk with his chin adopt his fist, and placed his right index finger in the air. With a slow tilt of the wrist, he pointed at the cold coffee mug. "That," he said lowly. "Right there."

"Cold coffee?" asked the first.

The second nodded with a grin. "We're going to convince an entire country not only to buy cold coffee, but that they actually think it tastes good."

"...You're serious?" asked the first. "We're going take an extremely bitter beverage, which only tastes good when it's hot and tastes like dog piss mixed with battery acid when it's cold, and convince people it's a good idea to drink it?"

"Not only that," the second said, "We're going to charge them four bucks a glass."

The first scratched his temple. "They'll look like fucking idiots," he said. "I LOVE it."

A few years later, they bought a small country with their earnings solely from selling people the single dumbest thing they could ever put in their mouths. And that, my friends, is how iced coffee was made.

The Thing About Blunt Honesty

2012-04-14T00:12:00.004-04:00

People love vitriolic opinions that are black or white. Most, if not all, humor is built on it. And the more blunt the delivery device, the more people like to cheer it on as it's being swung about.

Until it's swung at them. Then, suddenly, they realize they're a little more grey than they thought they were. And suddenly, there's rebuttal and stammering, and then anger, and then eventually silence. They feel that a line has been crossed.

The truth is, there is no such thing as "the line." There's only "the lines close to you." And so long as the ones close to you are left alone, you're all about some harsh truth being told like it is. Once your lines are crossed, you're no longer a spectator, you're a participant. Shit gets real.

And now, everyone else is spectating, and you're the one they're watching in the epic battle of black vs. white.

There are two types of people who see things in black and white: the stupid and the curious. The stupid use extremes to define themselves because they're incapable of actual thought. The curious use extremes to find out where everyone else stands when they don't realize they're making a stand.

Some Thoughts On Smoking

2012-04-13T07:05:00.000-04:00

I don't hate smokers. Just because you smoke doesn't mean I hate you. Two of my best friends in the world smoke cigarettes. But all of what I think, I think about them as well, and they're aware of it. They still love me anyway. After all, I've got my vices too. For instance, I am an asshole who has a big mouth. But I would never shove a stick filled with tar and cancer into it and light it on fire.

Smoking is the hallmark of a selfish, self-destructive person. I see someone smoking, and I automatically assume they care neither about themselves or the people around them. I know that deep down, they hate themselves and want to die. I find it sad, but my disgust outweighs my pity.

Cigarette butts thrown from car windows are the leading cause of forest fires and, thus, fire related deaths in the world. So thanks for that.

Why does anyone start smoking? They stink. They turn your fingers and teeth yellow. The smoke infects clothing and hair and smells horrible. It generates waste (which, I know, YOU would never just toss on the ground, but somehow thousands of cigarette butts litter the ground just about everywhere you go), it causes cancer and emphysema, and it looks stupid.

If you begin smoking over the age of 21, you're a fucking idiot, or somewhere deep inside you, you want to punish yourself or die. There's too much information pushed out into the public for an adult to be ignorant of the effects.

If I ever have children, I'd much rather find weed in their room than a pack of cigarettes. Legality of a vice is irrelevant to me, it's what it does to you, and the facts prove that marijuana is far less harmful to the body than tobacco.

More than once, I've seen someone in a drive thru or parking lot toss a cigarette butt out their car window, gotten out of my car, picked it up, knocked on their window, and said "You dropped this" and handed it back to them. Because that shit is fucked up. The world is not your ashtray.

For the record, I'd much rather you dip or chew tobacco. At least your spittle doesn't automatically enter my mouth every time you expel it. If you find chewers' and dippers' spitting disgusting, you should see what it looks like when the lung cancer of a non-smoker who lives with a smoker finally eats away at the outer tissue. THAT is disgusting.

If you are a parent who smokes in the house with small children present, fuck you. Seriously. You are a child abuser and a selfish piece of shit.

"Smoker's rights" are bullshit. You're choosing to engage in a behavior. That behavior has consequences. You never hear anything about "BDSM Rights" or "Gamer's Rights". When I worked at jobs that offered smoke breaks, not one offered me a "video game break" to run down to the arcade for 15 minutes every hour to engage in my vice.

Smoking in enclosed public places is the most bullshit of the bullshit that is "Smoker's Rights." You're bringing out into an unknown public a dangerous and disgusting haze that is produced by your selfish habit. Sure, I have a choice to go there or not. If it's a place called "Jim's cigar bar" then I'm not going to go there. If it's a place called "Chili's" there's no implied awareness that there will be smokers. You can go the fuck outside.

I'd much rather hang around loud, obnoxious drunk people than smokers. At least the noxious byproduct of their vice is merely annoying behavior. I don't have to breathe in hazardous vapors when they scream "Freebird!" for no good reason.

Courteous smokers -- thank you for being courteous. You go outside to smoke. That's great. But you still release your tar-filled smoke into the air and contribute to pollution. Your fiberglass filtered butts don't bio-degrade in landfills. You still hate yourself and secretly want to die, and you smell bad most of the time. But that's your own business. I just want you to know.

Wil Wheaton Just Tried To Kill Me With An Off-Road Skateboard

2012-04-11T03:06:00.000-04:00

This JUST happened, and is undoubtedly the most ridiculous thing to happen to me in a long while.

I'm crashing on the couch at my friend Drew's place while visiting Fark.com HQ. Now, I don't do well when sleeping in a place that's not my home, in my bed, with my wife and my cats and my fan and the sounds and shadows and environment I've grown accustomed to. I find it hard to sleep. I'll sometimes wake up during the night and freak out a little when I lay there with my eyes open, trying to figure out where I am and why it looks so different.

Because of all the traveling I've done the past few years, this isn't as long a process as it once was -- but it still happens. In hotel rooms, I can almost always recognize the fact that I'm in a safe place immediately, because almost all hotel rooms look the same with the lights out. But when at a friend's place, all of the silhouettes are different. The ambient sound in the air is different. It's more disorienting.

I crashed early this evening. I didn't sleep at all yesterday, and it caught up with me. So I hit the couch, put on my headphones (which have also helped me deal with the "Where the HELL am I?!?" moments when I wake up in the middle of the night. When I hear my music and feel my headphones on my head, I calm down because I know I'm traveling and in a safe place -- because I'm sleeping with headphones instead of, say, a baseball bat), and dropped right the fuck out.

I dreamt that a friend of mine invited me out to a city called Pasa Verde, California (not sure if that's a real place) for a skateboarding competition hosted by a magazine called TrickStyle Shredding (which I'm pretty sure isn't a real magazine, but oh my God, if you could see how it was laid out in my dream, I so would read it -- despite being named like it was some Swedish alt-mag trying to be all "Look at the cool American styles of the Board Skating! Let's carving the ramplifts with fast speed!"). For some reason, I was to be a guest judge. And I had to be there, because -- as happens in dreams, I suddenly knew that I was being evaluated to write for them about the effects of internet culture on skating.

And as also happens during dreams, things sort of morphed from being a dream about judging a skate ramp/trick competition to suddenly being a referee during a "SkaterCross" event. This event was basically a rally event across mountain bike trails on off-road skateboards, which feature huge engines on the back and gigantic mud tires with suspension, which the rider strapped into. But he didn't control it -- a second person, the driver, controlled the board via radio control. The rider was merely the gyroscope for tricks as the board got air.

...I know, right?!? That IS kinda badass, and I'd so watch a show full of that on ESPN 4.

During the race, one of the competitors was injured, and because I had been refereeing, I had become familiar with the course. So as happens in dreams, it made perfect sense that I step in and compete in his place. And of course, with dream-rules, my friend who invited me couldn't step in and ref in my place because that would be unfair - he wouldn't be impartial, so it had to be someone who hated me (because hating me wouldn't make them impartial? I don't know, it's a dream, nothing makes sense in dreams, except while in the dream).

So my brain, for whatever reason, suddenly introduced Wil Wheaton, who was wearing this Snidely Whiplash tophat and mustache and cackled menacingly (this is likely because I'm working from Fark.com HQ, which has a fairly heavy Wheaton presence).

I set off. My driver (Jeremy) was doing a great job of keeping the speed up as I weaved through obstacles and zipped through the trails. I was coming up to a dangerous rocky hill that was slick from a kid throwing his sno-cone on the rocks. I radioed Jeremy so he could compensate for the lack of traction by turning on the skateboard's all-wheel drive (holy cow, I seriously want this fucking skateboard in real life now).

But it was SABOTAGED by Wil Whiplash, the evil referee!! And what's more, he paid the kid to throw the sno-cone on the rocks, because that's where he had hidden the tripwires that activated the bolo wrap trap (you know the scene in Return of the Jedi when the Ewok swings the rope with two rocks tied to either end at the Stormtrooper and it wraps around his head and knocks him out? That thing).

I hit the ground hard. The crowd went "ooooh..." I busted open my head. I was ensnared in cabling around my neck and shoulders and couldn't move. And that's when my body jolted awake.

I started panicking. I was sleeping on my belly, so I went to push myself up - but I couldn't move my arms because I was completely wrapped in the extended power cord for my phone, and my headphone cable was wrapped all the way around my neck.

I didn't know what to do, so I rolled to my back, sat up, placed my feet on the floor, stood and yanked with my whole body, which pulled the cord free from the wall. Everything was dark and hazy... My brain was telling me this was because I'd just fallen and cracked open my head and I'd better get to the bathroom across the way and take care of it.

I had to navigate past the couch, a huge support column, and a laundry basket while my arms were pinned to my side (I wasn't tied up tightly in reality, but in the dream I was completely wound up - so in my awakened state my brain told me it was useless to struggle). I stumbled and wobbled, but I got to the bathroom.

I managed to bring my hand up enough to flip on the light. I looked in the mirror. There I stood, wrapped up in headphone and iPhone cables, my phone dangling in tow, with a piece of gum I was chewing when I fell asleep strung from my hair and dangling across my forehead (where the head wound was in my dream). And playing on the headphones was "Sabotage" by the Beastie Boys.

So, I'm awake now. And I thought I'd share that with you all. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go photoshop Wil Wheaton in a tophat with a mustache.

Ah, Consulting...

2012-04-10T00:43:00.002-04:00

In a former life (and once again), I consulted for various companies doing various web and digital things. I posted a little about that stuff on this blog back in the day, but for the most part, I kept business stuff in its little business world.

During these days, the RFPs (Requests for Proposals) used to pour into my inbox. And I used to pass off the more ridiculous ones. But occasionally, when something REALLY ridiculous showed up, I'd actually answer them. The hope was to get at least a conference call, but sometimes I'd actually go in and make a pitch.

This happened three times. The first one (a conference call with the former heads of digital at a major news network I consulted for) is documented in the post An Unordered List Of Thoughts I Had During A Conference Call With A Potential Client Today. The second was with the ex-founders of eTour.com, a site that, during it's day, was called ridiculous and frivolous, but today would probably do very well, if Google hadn't started including previews of every search return + the "I'm feeling lucky" button already. They came up with a genius idea that was quite novel at the time: A search engine that something something whatever come the fuck on, Google was (and is) impenetrable for search, and you're retarded if you think you can beat it.

The third was actually not me trying to take the piss out of a potential client for my own personal entertainment, until I got there. It was akin to another job I had just finished with a MASSIVE media company: an internal social network. It's a great idea, and I led my client to a very successful implementation of it. Very shortly thereafter, the word spread and I was given an invite to do the same thing at another extremely massive hardware company.

I had the conference call. It was very short -- they liked what they already heard, they wanted to get my take on setting one up, and within minutes they scheduled a meeting. I showed up and was met by 7 people -- two C-level folks, several Directors of This and That, and the "Social Media Manager" who -- I'm not kidding -- was 18 years old.

Now, I was 19 when I started working in the corporate world. But my situation was different. First, I knew what the hell I was doing technologically, and second... Well, no. There was only that one difference.

After all the glad-handing and offering of coffee (I always take a client up on their offer of coffee -- the quality of the coffee is an indicator of how well the company is doing. Good coffee = a Kuerig (or similar), or Starbucks in the percolator. Crappy coffee = scrimping on the food budget, the first sign that a company is in deep shit. Their coffee was FANTASTIC, for the record).

For simplicity, I'm going to save listing the various characters involved per-line, but the conversation went like this, almost verbatim:

Client: "What we want… Is a social network that appeals to the employees of [company]. Something like Facebook meets LinkedIn."

Me: "Right. I just implemented a system like this for [former client]."

Client: "Oh, we are definitely aware. One of our board members plays golf with one of the board members of [client] and they were very impressed."

Me: "I'm flattered."

Client: "Tell us, what features does their internal social network have?"

Me: "Well, obviously the details are under NDA, but generally, it's literally a Facebook, but on an intranet. It unifies multiple international offices in a way that allows the internal resources to share with one another--"

Client: "Share what, exactly?"

Me: "...Well, things like ideas and concepts, office-wide or regional events, personal statuses--"

Client: "Well, we can't have personal status sharing."
I wasn't surprised by this requirement at all -- with my former client, it took a LOT of convincing to get them to understand that by allowing employees to post things freely (so long as they followed the employee handbook), it would actually lead to greater camaraderie and a higher level of productivity overall, and it did -- and I explained this to them.

Client: "Well, they could be allowed to post general information. But they shouldn't be able to post links to outside websites or personal photos. So we need it to block any links or photos that aren't company-sanctioned. And we don't want them to waste company time socializing; they should only be able to use the system periodically or once a day. They can only post a certain number of messages."

Me: "So what you want is a cork board."

Client: "…No, no, you must not understand."

They went on to re-explain the above, adding that they also want the ability to approve every single post. This is a company of over 100,000 employees. If -- IF -- any employee actually used it at all, it would take a month to sort through a week's worth of messages. And, it should be unique to each office -- no sharing between regional offices.

Me: "Alright, so you want a place to put notices -- all business-related, of course -- that employees can view during breaks, and can be monitored at all times by management?"

Client: "Exactly!"

I had absolutely no intention of building that. Not only would no one use it, it would be scrutinized to hell and back. I also had no real interest in working with this company. So I fired up the Self Entertainment Engine.

Me: "Understood. I can build it."

Client: "Fantastic! How much would something like this cost?"

Me: "Exactly Two hundred forty thousand, one hundred and twenty-four dollars ($240,124)."

[After some deliberation and looks shared] Client: "Seriously?"

Me: "Yes, seriously."

Client: "That's actually quite reasonable."

Me: "I agree. I'm a reasonable guy. May I ask, what is your budget?"

Client: "Well, we don't want to show all of our cards, you understand..."

Me: "I understand. I've already quoted a figure; exactly $240,124. So I'm not going to just change it out from under you."

Client: "Well, we expected something on the order of half a million."

Me: "Oh, no. That's highway robbery. I will do it for less than a quarter million, no problem. $240,124 to be precise."

[One of the C-level guys speaks up] Client: "$240,124?"

Me: "Right."

Client: "May I ask, what's with the $124?"

Me: "Supplies."

Client: "Supplies?"

Me: "Supplies."

[Strange looks appear on faces] Client: "...What kind of supplies?"

Me: "Cork."

Client: "...Cork?"

Me: "Yes, sheets of cork. And push-pins. Oh, and adhesive."

[Stranger looks appear on faces] Client: "...What is that for?"

Me: "Your social network."

Client: "I don't understand... How does that apply to building our internal social network?"

Me: "You asked for a 'social network' that exists per-office, with heavy moderation, constant monitoring and company-only business, that employees can only use during breaks. I'm going to cover the largest wall of each of your offices with cork."

Client: "...What?!?"

Me: "Well, you don't want pin holes in the drywall, do you?"

Client: "You can't be serious."

Me: "Of course I'm serious. That's why I am charging you the other two hundred and forty grand."

Client: "..."

Me: "I gotta fly to all your offices That's gonna get costly."

Client: "..."

Me: "Fortunately, with migrant labor, actually putting up the cork won't take much at all."

[angered] Client: "Are you having fun?"

Me: "No. I've wasted my time. Wasting my time isn't fun at all."

Client: "Wasted YOUR time? You think that cracking jokes about gluing cork to our office walls is a good use of our time?"

Me: "Not even slightly. Neither is building your version of this supposed 'social network' -- no one in your company will use it and you'll be throwing your money away."

Client: "Well, I think we've heard enough--"

Me: "Wait."

[A long, awkward pause] Client: "Yes?!?"

Me: "For an extra three thousand, I can upgrade you to Dry Erase paint and markers."

And that was the end of the meeting. And if you're wondering if this really happened... You haven't been reading me enough. I recommend starting at the beginning of this blog and working your way forward until you're convinced.

OverDraw Something

2012-04-06T06:45:00.004-04:00

A Blog Post About A Blog. META!

A lot of people have enjoyed my ridiculous Draw Something works of "art". So, I've collected them into their own Tumblr log, OverDraw Something:

If you're interested in keeping up with the latest in vastly overblown poorly rendered scenes that describe simple words via iPhone games, then this is the Tumblr log for you. It's SO you. It's practically made for you. It suits you. It's your new best friend.

Go forth. Like my posts. Reblog them. Follow it, if you're that sort.