Why I Think I May Have Been Sexually Abused as a Child

I was in Mike’s Movie Madness in Portland, OR, arguably the best video store on the planet earth, browsing through the new releases. I had the weekend to myself, as the fetching Mrs. Sonnier was out of town, and I had made big plans to do a whole lot of nothing. The ultimate goal was to catch up on some movie-watching, so callously neglected with all this “going to work” and “doing the dishes” and “let’s talk about your drinking problem” nonsense. It was going to be great, I was going to watch a bunch of movies, perhaps play the occasional video game, probably not put on pants all weekend, and would probably eat ice cream with a ladle.

Mike’s Movie Madness was definitely the place to start, but it did complicate the problem a little, since that oddly-shaped, ramshackle of a video store boasts over 50,000 VHS and DVDs. I decided to start in the new release room, and that’s where I saw it: Transformers: The Complete First Season. I almost jumped out of my skin. I had been belly-aching for months over the VHS set on eBay going over $100 each and every time, but was able to reassure myself that it would soon make it to DVD, at the very least before the movie was set to premiere, and I held in my hand proof of that fact. The box was shiny, and I could see the reflection of my “five-year-old on Christmas morning” grin in Optimus Prime’s faceplate. While waiting in line, I momentarily thought of just putting the DVD back on the shelf, heading to the nearest department store and just buying the box set, but I was impatient and it was getting dark outside, and I was getting the brew-shakes. I’ll just pick up the box set later, I thought to myself with deep satisfaction.

A stop off at The Belmont Station for a bottle of moderately priced Unibrou (Trois Pistoles, I think it was) and off to the crib for a serious nostalgia-thon. Soon enough, I was installed pleasantly on the sofa with a bubbling glass of Belgian beer, a plate stacked with cold pizza, slamming my finger hungrily on the play button of the DVD remote control….

“Transformers….robots in disguise…Autobots wage their battle to destroy the evil forces of the Deceptacons…Transformers…”

And it stunk. It was terrible. I couldn’t even make it through the first episode, though, oddly enough, I actually remembered how it ended. The reason I remembered was because between the years of 1984 and some much later year that I choose not to disclose here (let’s just say that the show was well into syndication) I watched Transformers, the original television series, every day.



The animation was terrible, the voice dubs were comically out of sync. The storylines were ludicrous, even for a show that’s about robots that turn into cars and trucks and fight each other for glowing cubes of energy. I was flabbergasted. How did I watch this show for years and never realize it was so crappy?

It was about this time that the little quasi-retarded man that lives in my brain brought to my attention several other conclusions I had recently reached and strung them together for me:

1. Thundercats sucked. The animation was hokey and the voice acting was ridiculous. It was also borderline racist. Also, Mum-Ra is possibly the dumbest villain ever conceived.

2. He-Man sucked. The animation was even worse than Thundercats, and there was no hot Cheetara to keep you from noticing. Teela does not count.

3. Rainbow Brite was a conspiracy by Hallmark to turn kids into homosexuals, like Captain Planet was an effort by Ted Turner to turn kids into limp-wristed eco-freaks. My little brother’s sexual persuasion and ferocity on all things environmental is a testament to the efficacy of these reprogramming initiatives and his weak constitution.

Unavoidable Conclusion: The 80s were absolutely rife with shitty, shitty cartoons that we kids happily lapped up with all the restraint of Andy Dick at a coke party. GoBots, The Centurions, Captain Power, M.A.S.K., Pole Position, David the Gnome, and the vast majority of the others were masticated, over-produced, pre-packaged garbage that had circled the globe and been recycled so many times, they barely even made any sense anymore.

So why did we love these shows so much? Because nothing else was on and it was better than staring at the wall while you made your brother begin the twenty minute process of getting the Nintendo to work, what with the pressing and the resetting and hitting and the swabbing with the Q-tip taped to the butter knife.

The sad realization that all the television programs I loved as a child were nothing more than pop-culture, toy-sales-driven crap was not what bothered me the most. What really caused me to swallow that lump of cold pizza in my throat was this heavy question: If everything I remember about being a kid is wrong, what have I subconsciously chosen NOT to remember?

This is why I think I may have been sexually abused a child. I don’t know by who, or when, or why, but it does go to explain a few things. My little brother, for example, perhaps not completely under the control of the legion of the bone-queens by the efforts of Rainbow Brite, Twink and the rest of the Color Kids, must have witnessed me being abused by some as-yet-unidentified member of the family or circle of friends and is now attempting to act out this grim scene of cruelty on other boys, usually dressed Hannah Montana.



Perhaps this recent spate of seeking out my once-favorite shows and learning them to be utter drivel is my own subconscious way of exposing my own self-deceit, and forcing myself to dredge and confront these awful truths about my abusive childhood in the hopes of exorcising these demons that have tormented lo these many years.

Then again, maybe I was just a stupid kid who didn’t know any better. I mean, I used to really like hot dogs. I also used to believe a man got a woman pregnant by peeing on her. You can thank my older brother for that one, though, I have to give him props for figuring out the penis was involved at such a young age.

TV shows, movies, cars, music, and just about any other tangible thing that can be quantified and categorized, almost always ends up like Burning Man: the last year you went was the last year it was cool. I have numerous friends and family members that constantly winge and bellyache bout the quality of TV and films and toasters and lawn equipment these days, invariably concluding that “things were a lot better back in the day.” I myself am guilty of this when I watch a few minutes of Code Lyoko, my six-year-old nephew’s favorite cartoon. Incidentally, if anyone can explain this stupid show to me, you’d be doing me a favor. Even Wikipedia’s entry is less than enlightening, but it does indicate the show is French in origin, so I’m not sure that one’s even supposed to get it.

In any case, what these naysayers fail to realize is that EVERY generation thinks they had it better, that their lives were simpler, that they really knew the score and that they had cornered the market on wholesome living, American style. The fact that it’s all bullshit. By every quantifiable variable, life, in virtually every capacity, gets better every day. The average cost of living decreases, while the quality of life increases. The average American lives significantly better and longer than out counterparts only 100 years ago. Our food is better, our hygiene is better, our education, medicine, and pretty much anything else you can think of, is better than it was even ten years ago.

Okay, so I wasn’t abused as a child, unless you count the endlessly mean and embarrassing things my older brother did to me, which I do. I was, however, among the first generation of children in America to grow up in an entirely mediated world, even in the backwoods of Louisiana. It was no coincidence that my favorite superheroes were toys and puzzles and video games before they ever graced my television screen. I was among the first American children to be subjected to, and totally buy into mass merchandising, tie-in promotions and subliminal advertising, and now I’m finally old enough to resent it.




On the other hand, though, Voltron was totally awesome.

Like A Gong!!

OTR - Giving You What You Want: Pornography

Fiction

He decided one day to write fiction. He sat at his typewriter and began to hit the keys in a determined manner, like those newsreels of reporters, sheets of white paper swirling around the room. He started writing, not with an idea in mind, but simply to put words on paper in the hopes that it would become something, perhaps anything. Something is always better than nothing, he thought, except in the case of testicular cancer, he then corrected himself.

He started writing about a man in a foreign land searching through the jungle for a fabled gem worth more than he could ever spend in his lifetime. Then he realized that was exactly like Romancing the Stone, which he saw on TBS about three weeks ago when he couldn't sleep. He pulled the paper from the typewriter, a loud ripping sound rending the silence of the room. He then started writing about a robot culture that hated humans, except for the man that invented them. Then he realized that it was exactly like that novel Software that he'd stolen from the waiting room of his dentist's office when he was sixteen. Another piece of paper was torn from the machine and balled in the nearby bin. He then started writing about a revolution of slaves on Mars and....shit, that's just like that fucking video game Red Faction that he'd beaten last Summer.

He was beginning to get frustrated, so instead of writing about exciting things, and serious things, and things that made a difference, he started writing about the real world, at least how he saw it. He wrote about how he'd like to call himself a writer to other people he meets, but he can't bring himself to because he's never made a penny writing and, after all, there must be some standard, otherwise he could just as well call himself an astronaut or a professional alcoholic. He wrote about how he likes to think of himself as a writer, but sometime he's afraid he’ll never really be one because he doesn't always have really great ideas that turn into wonderful works of art, or otherwise. Sometimes, he wrote, he has okay ideas, but he forgets them because he's too tired to get out of bed and write them down.

He wrote about how he's very afraid he might not be a writer because he sometimes goes weeks and weeks without writing so much as a grocery list. Coincidentally, it's always in those weird times that he doesn't read either, not really being able to tell if one is contributing to the other, or if they both seem to occupy the same space in his brain that has become temporarily atrophied. He wrote about how his biggest fear in the world is that he'll never be able to tell anyone that he's a writer, and know it to be true.

He started to write about his life, but figured no one really wanted to know about his life. The way he sees it, there are a lot of stories out there, interesting ones that are about people that travel the world, fight in wars, love forbidden loves, battle adversity and work for justice with cold determination. his story didn't have any of that stuff, except for that week he spent in Jamaica, but even that was pretty tame, except for the guy that tried to sell him pot, then acid, then mushrooms, then a jet ski. He thought that was pretty funny.

He wrote about how he'd love to know what people wanted to read, and write that for them. Then he got depressed, because if someone is coming up with ideas for you, then you're not really a writer, you're just th guy hitting th kys. Spaking of kys, the ky btwn th “w” and th “r” was stuck again. He hit with some oil. Good.

He wrot about th world in an abstract snse. Crap. It was still stuck. Stupid fucking typewriter. Sure, it looks cool and trendy and 40's chic, but this Remington is truly a piece of shit, he thought to himself as he oiled the key again, making sure to get as much oil as possible on his hands. Is this big, honking, clacky typewriter supposed to make you a real writer? That's bullshit. You've just spent too much time staring at that photo of Ernest Hemingway in his study in front of that huge Corona typewriter. The fact of the matter, he reminded himself, is that you've never fought in a war, you don't smoke, you don't even like rum, and you don't suffer from crippling depression (last you checked). Why make an effort to be like Hemingway?

He was stuck. He'd written himself into a corner. He realized he'd gone of on a tangent about Hemingway and wasn't sure where to go from here. Then he realized he didn't start anywhere in particular, so it really didn't matter where he ended up.

He wrote about riding about his first bicycle, a beautiful red Schwinn with one gear and a front fork that could turn completely around. Then he realized that was dumb. No one wanted to know about his bike, except for bike enthusiasts, and they probably didn’t read very much other that bicycle magazines.

He wrote for a shot period of time about a tree frog he found hiding in the window when he was a boy. The moment he saw it, he was taken by a feeling of devotional love and decided to keep the little guy in a box in his room. He named the frog Ralph. Ralph died soon after, and he remembered being sad, and a little guilty because he never fed the frog. He didn’t know what tiny little frogs ate, anyway. Come think of it, he thought, he still doesn’t know

He stepped up from the desk and stretched. Not bad, he told himself. It’s a start. He had a glass of metallic tap water and looked out his apartment window at the snow that was accumulating. He looked at the powdery snow outside, and the occasional person trudging though, bundled against the elements, and he felt cozy and warm, and even a little happy.

He sat back down at his desk and began typing again.

Anyone Can Herd Cattle...

Rock On!

Dr. Mike Gravel is running for President of the United States.

No, seriously, he is.

Word of the Day: Dribbly

The other morning, exiting my front door, car keys and brown bag in hand, I chanced upon a peculiar sight. A pack of dogs were tearing down the street of my quiet suburban neighborhood wrestling, biting, peeing and otherwise carousing noisily at a steady pace, headed directly for me. There had to have been at least seven of them, each larger than the last, being led by, what I presumed was a horse-sized Great Dane/ Dalmatian mix.

I was transfixed. Between the growls and yips and occasional stream of urine hitting the sidewalk, I could only stare. I was reminded of one of the bloopers at the end of “Talladega Nights” where Will Farrell and that other guy make a public service announcement about packs of wild dogs terrorizing major American cities. I pictured these usually harmless house pets on a wild rampage of death and destruction, and was wildly amused, which is quite a feat for me so early in the morning.

The ravenous ball of dog parts got closer and closer. I stood motionless. How does one react to a pack of dogs invading your front yard? Does one yell or throw rocks? I decided to wait and feel out the situation. If figured, if they were just having a good time, who was I to interrupt?



As the biggest of the dogs lifted his gargantuan leg to piss on my hibiscus bush, I was enamored by the shape of his airborne leg. What a peculiar shape, I thought, how uniquely specialized and complicated a limb is, with all its bones, ligaments, fluids, joints and various other whatnots (I’ve been accused of being needlessly introspective when fatigued and/or intoxicated, at eight o’clock in the morning on a Tuesday, it’s anyone’s guess which applies). One can almost conclude that this extraordinarily complex mechanism is so specialized, and so intricate, and so unique, that it would be outside the realm of pure chance that something so fantastic would have simply come into existence without the mindful eye of a Creator. Almost.

Then, as the Great Dane’s pee party ended, and he let the first few dribbles of runny poo onto my hibiscus’ leaves (I don’t even like hibiscus, but fuck, they’re mine and you can’t poo on them!) I shooed the pack of dogs away, instantly putting to an end their morning rampage and they all retreated to their respective houses.

On the drive to work, I remained fixed on the mechanism of the dog’s leg, and the human leg, and the arm, and horses’ legs (not to mention the curious nature of the hoof) and various other animals and their various modes of transportation. A thought struck me as I looked at the cars around me: Dumbing down the mechanism of evolution to a simple task of “construction” of species with available resources, (i.e., the best, most efficient organism available utilizing the least amount of raw materials and requiring minimal upkeep) the question is begged: If a robot limb, for example, articulated and complex, is so difficult and consuming to manufacture, why have no creatures, large or small, ever evolved wheels?

Consider this simple fact: wheels rule. The wheel is the kind of thing that gives James Burke a big British chubby. Not only are we talking about the fundamental building block of civilization (yes, James, even more than the plow) but just about the first innovation of man. Not only is it cheap, extraordinarily effective, adaptable to virtually any use (that involves “rolling”) but it’s so easy, you would think even the non-sentient but “all-knowing” and ultimately opportunistic forces of evolution would have figured it out first. Hell, if monkeys can figure out how to get ants out of a mound with a stick, the wheel seems only days away, right?

A lesser rational man would look to this question and say “See, evolution is not the answer to all man’s questions about the origin of life! Let me tell you about the Discovery Institute…” as he reached into his fanny-pack for a colorful brochure. We here at the OTR, however, are not so weak of constitution. You see, every learned person has to acknowledge that the theory of Darwinian evolution, his theory of natural selection (a.k.a. “survival of the fittest”) and modern evolution theory in general, possess great flaws.

That’s right, despite what Richard Dawkins says, evolution is a theory, sure a theory that is virtually agreed upon by every thinking and learned person on the planet and is the only far-reaching theory that meets and effectively explains the most of the fossil record we’ve been able to uncover up to this point, but still just a theory.



I feel significant joy when a Creationist makes the, oh-so-hilarious appeal to scientific reason in his attempt to debunk scientific reason for purely emotional and spiritual motivations. In that vein, a common (if underrepresented) criticism of evolution is related to the Second Law of Thermodynamics and a concept known as entropy. Entropy (in a simplistic manner of speaking) is the manner in which chaos begets more chaos, change begets more change and so on and so on. Basically, entropy dictates that irreversible changes occur spontaneously in closed thermodynamic systems, which increase the likelihood that more spontaneous changes will occur. The basic conclusion one draws from this law is that order cannot come from chaos. It’s against the law.

The classic example is ice melting in tumbler of 18 year-old Highland, single-malt Scotch. The Scotch, you see, is room temperature, and the ice, we can presume, is at least 32 degrees Celsius. When the two are combined, chaos ensues. The chaos, in this case, is the temperature differential between the ice, the scotch and the room, and in this situation, the chaos that is causing both the ice to melt and the Scotch to cool, all in a chaotic effort to normalize the temperature with the surrounding air. This is, of course, an extremely dumbed-down version of the definition of entropy, but it’s the only way I ever managed to understand it, when it relates to Scotch.



Creationists state that the theory of evolution countermands the second law of thermodynamics in that it dictates that the ordered and varied existence of life on this planet evolved from the chaos and disorder of, well, whatever came before. This laudable appeal to reason and science is engaging, but ultimately worthless, dribbly shit, similar to what is currently gracing the leaves of my hibiscus plant.

"The use of thermodynamics in biology has a long history rich in confusion" — Harold J. Morowitz

My own confusion is paramount, but the nut of the issue is this: entropy can only increase in a closed system. The problem is, the Earth is not a closed system, like a stone or a glass of water or a microscopic organism, our planet is powered by the Sun.

The really sticky issue is that “entropy,” as it’s defined in thermodynamics (there are numerous other definitions relating to information technology, communications, etc.) can’t really be fully explained because, as John Von Nuemann put it, “No one really know what entropy is anyway.”

As much as this whole post seems like some bizarre exercise in futility (as opposed to all those eother, really important and life-changing posts that frequent this forum), I assure you it is not. The point is that occasionally, we humans get so focused on the moment at hand: what to make for dinner tonight, when am I going to find the time to visit Grandmother’s grave, did I remember to feed the gimp?, we often forget that there are a lot of big ideas out there. These ideas exist not to make us confused or feel stupid, they exist because someone just like you and me (well, mostly like me) found the time to think about them. Isaac Newton saw an apple fall to the Earth, and wondered why? Albert Einstein saw the Sun warming the Earth, and wondered, how? OJ Simpson learned of the murder of his ex-wife and her lover and wondered, whom? These were great men, but not great because they possessed some superpower (though OJ had a mean rushing season in ’68) they were great because they applied their gifts to their fullest extent.

The big ideas in the world are the product of Man, and the application of his skill, not gifts from god. When an NFL running back steps in front of the camera to thank god for helping him bring home that touchdown, he’s not prostrating himself in front of a higher power, he’s diminishing his own hard work and his own talent and intensive training. He’s admitting that he is not the master of himself, which in the end, is the only true power a human has.

So why have humans, pinnacles of achievement never evolved something akin to wheels? It’s a tricky, and somewhat stupid question, but after much thought, I’ve come up with a few ideas. Firstly, evolution is not a zero-sum game: for every major achievement in evolution, there are variable stages. Take the lungs, for example. The fossil records gives us an incredible array or various types of tissues, sacks, prongs and all sorts of other weird stuff that creatures have used to utilize oxygen from the air or water. The big problem with a wheel-type appendage is that variable stages required to get to the end product (a real, flesh and bone wheel and axle mechanism) would be completely useless. Also, you have to consider that for quick stopping and turning, climbing and jumping, nothing really beats a set of legs, even primitive ones. Also, I’ll bet the interstate system really sucked about 130,000 years ago.

iHate You

All you iLifers can take your iPhones and shove right up your iHoles.

That being said, this is pretty funny.

(Author gracefully bows out stage right so as not to draw attention to his grossly apparent absence of late. As if you care.)

please pass the syrup. please.

Raisin Toast

If you've never seen Frisky Dingo, you should. Really. If you ask nice enough, I might send you a copy.

Sense: This Picture Makes None

Of Bean Dip and Toilet Paper

It’s been said that a man is only capable of perceiving the world as it truly exists in the 20 seconds immediately following orgasm. It’s said that, in these rare moments, he is able to catch a fleeting glimpse of reality, untainted by his own hormonal tendencies, social pressures, and misconceptions about the world. The doors of perception are said to throw open, casting the blinding light of truth on all he can survey.

The opportunities for these moments occur much more frequently, but perhaps it is only in that uniquely clear-headed state that most men are able to acknowledge them. These incidents are what addicts refer to as a “moment of clarity,” the split-second when their drug addled brains send a completely fogless signal to their consciousness and they are able, usually for the first time, to see who they truly are.

I was in the self-checkout line at the grocery store yesterday. I went to the grocery store to obtain the two things the modern man needs to survive: bread and beer. The bread was to be used for a delicious spicy artichoke garlic bread, the beer was for drinking, because that’s what I drink in the Summer. Walking into the supermarket, through the deli aisle, I caught a glimpse of something tantalizing: 7-layer dip.

Perhaps my biggest mistake, one I make with disastrous regularity, is shopping on my way home from work, a point in the day when the only sustenance that has passed my lips is a cup of coffee and a peanut butter sandwich.

The thought of digging a think, hearty corn chip into layer after layer of cheese and guacamole and sour cream was just too much to bear. I picked it up and made my way to the self-checkout.

Bread: $2.99. I know it’s a lot for bread, but good bread makes good spicy artichoke garlic bread. Beer: $6.49. Again, a tad on the expensive side, but you tell me Abita Restoration Ale isn’t worth every penny (if you have the means, I highly recommend picking some up).

Dip: $16.99.

I was speechless. I was aghast. I was flabbergasted. I was……without speech.

I looked around me at the other folks checking out eggs and milk on their way home. I huffed, hoping someone would look up so I could point to the 10” dish of canned beans and processed cheese they expected someone to pay $17.00 for. No one looked, they just quietly bagged their wine and adult magazines.

I was incensed. Seventeen fucking dollars?! For bean dip?! What has this world come to? Anyone out there willing to shell out close to $20 for refried beans, shredded “cheese” and guacamole flavored dippy sauce needs to contact me immediately because I’ve got some amazing real estate opportunities tell you about.

It was at that precise moment, when I was able to see myself standing at a self-checkout kiosk in a supermarket, holding a plastic dish of bean dip, staring at like it was dancing the Charleston, that I realized I was old.

Okay, to be fair, being thrifty does not equate being old. I’ve always been thrifty. I’ve always been of the mind that the good life can be purchased at a discount if you just wait and look around enough. The difference is, that as a younger man, making even less money than I do now, I would have bought the fucking bean dip because I wanted it. Sure, I would have bitched about how much it cost to anyone that would listen, but I would be doing it with a mouthful of delicious 7-layer dip.

I’m reminded of once, when my little brother and I were perhaps seven and five years old, respectively. He and I were on our parents’ bed watching cartoons. Dad walked into the room in a mild tizzy clutching a roll of toilet paper. “I just replaced this roll yesterday!” he exclaimed. We were both at a loss for words. Possible responses to that statement were limited. Dad pulled off the last three sheets clinging to the cardboard tube and he looked us dead in the eyes. “When you use toilet paper, don’t just grab a whole bunch and wad it up, fold like this.” He diligently folded three squares of toilet paper into a neat cleaning apparatus in the palm of his hand. He stared at us.

The only response we could muster was to laugh so hard we started crying and we both fell off the bed. Thankfully, my Dad, able to see the humor in the situation (especially since he was in his underwear at the time) and started to chuckle as well. That lesson always stuck in my head as the inane activity of old people.

Yesterday afternoon in the supermarket was my equivalent of the toilet paper speech. I’m not just an adult, I’m an adult who gets pissed off about the price of bean dip. What’s next? Am I going to start clipping coupons to save thirty cents on a brand of canned chili I don’t even like?

I suppose it truly is all relative. Do I feel old? No. Do I feel entirely justified in making a big deal over bean dip? You damn’ tootin’. Some people say you’re only as old as you feel, but that’s clearly bullshit. When you go to buy a car and the salesman says, “It’s a 1995 model, but it drives just like the 2000 model!” you would look at him like he fell on his neck. What the hell does “old” even feel like?

My dad would say enlarged prostate, possibly throw in something about a colonoscopy.

Is this really about bean dip? Certainly not. It’s not even about getting older, or time slipping away. It’s about how perception can change based solely on how long you’ve been perceiving. My unwillingness to part with seventeen of my hard earned dollars shows that reason, for the first time in my life, trumps my love for tex-mex inspired snack foods.

You’re only as old as you are. That’s the only truth out there, but age means different things to everyone. Murakami didn’t write anything until he was twenty-nine years old. Of course, Mozart composed his first music when he was five. Again, I suppose it’s relative.

That being said, you all have to admit, $17.00 for bean dip is absolutely preposterous, even if I do need the fiber.

Oregon: That Place Just Ain't Right

My favorite part is the horse's owner using words like "concise" in reference to some neighborhood kid cornholing his horse under cover of night. Oregon is a strange place.

Teen caught having sex with horse on CCTV

A US teenager has been arrested after he was caught on video having sex with a horse in a barn.

The owners of the barn in Corvallis, Oregon, had installed the video surveillance camera after previous assaults on the horse, reports the Corvallis Gazette-Times.

They were shocked to see footage of the teen sexually assaulting the mare when they checked the video in February.

Deputy Clay Stephens, who viewed the video, said the youth seemed very practiced, not hurried but not wasting any time. He seemed to be following a "very concise, deliberate, well-thought-out plan".

The owners then installed a silent alarm in the barn which sounded in their house at about 2.30am on June 7.

They checked the video monitor, saw the teenager preparing to assault the horse again, and called the sheriff's office.

Police officers rushed to the scene and arrested the teenager who was charged with burglary and sexual abuse of an animal.

Going Back to College, College, College

“You’ll have to excuse me, it’s been so long since I’ve been on campus, I’ve actually forgotten what the “advising meeting” is supposed to accomplish, other than having you lift the hold on my account and allow me to register for classes.” I shifted nervously in my chair. My faculty advisor was out for the Summer, so here I was meeting with the head of the department, and on very short notice. “Well,” she said as she folded her pleasantly wrinkled hands in front of her, “The idea is to lay out some goals for the upcoming semester. I look at what you’ve taken, make recommendations on what you need to take, and so on.”

I was officially daunted. Her plush office was like the writing studio of my dreams. Simple, hand-made bookshelves covered every inch of the wall, laden with paperbacks, hard covers, serials, magazines, newspapers and huge books of art from every age and every corner of the world. The only sections of the pleasantly tacky wood-paneled walls that were visible were the ones holding up her inconspicuously displayed Doctorate certificates in Literature and Philosophy. I was torn by jealousy and fear. Basking in the presence of a bonafide intellectual is something I had not experienced since my surly youth, a time when I could not have appreciated the gravity, or even mustered the sobriety to care.

“So, what were you planning to major in?” She asked, flashing a toothy, receding gum-line grin. “Um, well…” I was legitimately thrown off by her ending that last sentence with a preposition. I suppose we’re not all perfect. “English, definitely. Creative writing most likely. Given my penchant to give up on things that prove either dull or too hard, I suppose if I choose something I actually enjoy, I might have a better chance at success.” I started squirming again. This time, it wasn’t solely because of her, but because she was examining what appeared to be my transcript. Needless to say, that amazing beer-a-mid I built from MGD cans in February of 1999 did not appear on this document.



“I see you attended honor’s English your freshman year?” she asked. If by “attended” you mean “showed up sober twice,” then yes, I thought to myself, I attended honor’s English. “I had the good fortune to enter into the honor’s program here in 1998, a distinction I squandered with unmatched aptitude.” I replied. “I wouldn’t dwell on it,” she comforted, “Not everyone is cut out for college their first go ‘round. The ones that return are the ones that take the opportunity seriously and usually prove to be some of our most valued students.” She was caressing my injured ego, I liked it. “I suppose you could say I experienced what alcoholics refer to as “a moment of clarity.”” I stated.

She smiled again, like rolling the cover off a set of piano keys. “Very good.” She said. Very good? What does that mean? I grew more nervous, this time unable to determine precisely why. It was school. School always made me nervous, perhaps that’s why I pretended never to take it seriously. It’s almost a Pavlovian response: enter faculty’s office, get nervous. It’s not without cause, after all, the only times I ever darkened the door of any teacher’s or administrator’s office was for some nature of reprimand. This was going well, however, and the impulses to run away screaming were coming less and less often.

“Well, you can take just about any classes you want.” She said, handing over the upcoming semester’s prospectus. I though to myself, that’s a nice way of saying ‘Since all you accomplished your freshmen year was to determine the recipe for the real Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, any credits will be an improvement to this dismal transcript.’ This time I laughed. As sad as is sounds, the real Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster is so good, it was almost worth it.

We agreed on American Literature 206, I groaned when she brought up the calculus class I needed to take, I signed the appropriate forms, we shook hands, she flashed those mighty teeth one more time, and I left her eclectic office. All in all, it had been a good meeting. I strolled back into the hallway feeling good about myself. I was finally going to get this college-level monkey off my back. It’s going to take a few years, but I’ll soon be able to feel a little bit better about myself, and that’s certainly worth tens of thousands of dollars in student loans, right? I checked my watch, I still had twenty minutes to get back to the office before the conference call started. Plenty of time to stroll the campus, get my bearings again.

I emerged on the quad, strolling slowly, admiring the freshly shorn lawn, the bustle of students shouldering backpacks from Lee Hall to Griffin Hall, in and out of the library, sitting in front of PJ’s coffee discussing important, collegey things. The day was nice and I was feeling like I was on my way to accomplishing something, and my apprehension about the time and cost required were beginning to feel not-quite-so-stifling. Yep, I was feeling alright about stuff.

“Excuse me?” I heard around my shoulder. I turned to see a blonde woman, about my age, thrust her hand into mine and begin vigorously shaking. “I’m Julie. I noticed you leaving Dr. Gaudet’s office (it’s pronounced “go-day” –ed.) and I just had to meet you. Are you our new English instructor? I just can’t tell you how excited we are to have you. From Florida State, right? I’m the new head of the undergraduate English department.” I was stunned. Even if I hadn’t been completely speechless, I doubt I could have squeezed a word in edge-wise. She kept talking, and I sort of zoned out, in pure embarrassment.

Then there was this awful silence, a strange hiccup in the universe. This hiccup was all that was required for the world to shit in my freshly poured bowl of Cheerios.

“Um.” I stammered. I don’t usually stammer. “Um. No, actually. I’m a re-entry student, undergraduate, junior division. I know, I’m a little old, but I’ve been away for a while.”

There was that silence again, that awkward pause. If I had been on top of the world only a few moments earlier, I was now firmly planted in a 12th century Turkish prison being ritually gang-raped by horses.

“Oh.” Julie stammered. She seemed like the type of person that doesn’t usually stammer. “Um. I’m sorry. I’m sure you’ll do very well. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other around campus. It was nice to meet you.” She shook my hand again, a little less vigorously this time, and walked away.



I stood there for a second, picking up the pieces of my shattered ego, the very one that Dr. Gaudet had so convincingly pretended to polish only minutes earlier. I watched the students as they passed. Girls and boys, ten to fifteen years younger than myself, walking to and from classes, classes I don’t even qualify to take, educated years beyond me. Suddenly the June heat got a little more than I could bear and I slinked off to make my two o’clock conference call.

There's Butter on the Fucking Floor

Cooler Than the Other Side of the Pillow

Everyone’s got those few things, those unique items that have been around since the beginning. It could be a stuffed animal, a pewter bank shaped like an elephant, or a blanket with moons and stars. In my case, it’s a pillow. Not a baby pillow, but a regular adult pillow that I’ve rested my head upon virtually every night for my whole life. I can’t remember exactly how I came into possession of this pillow, only that I’ve always had it.

While making the bed last night, I came to a strange realization: my pillow will soon be on the better half of thirty years old.

The idea that time inexorably moves forward is not something upon which I will expound. Nor will I ire endlessly about how quickly it escapes us. I will only point out that in about two months, my pillow will be twenty-seven years old.

It’s not a shock when you look at it. My pillow’s kind of stained, misshapen, sort of bulgy in the middle. It’s been stuffed and re-stuffed so many times, the threads on the edges seem to blur together, defying census. It’s flat in some parts, and sort of wobbly in others, but all in all, I think it’s still got a lot of life left in it.

The fact that my pillow is rounding thirty is not a surprise: it’s sort been looming for the last ten years or so. I think the reason I find myself stupefied by my nearly thirty-year-old pillow is that I always presumed my pillow would be in a much different place by now. Perhaps I imagined a bigger mattress, or a nicer bed spread, perhaps in a farmhouse in the country with horses, or maybe a high-rise flat in Prague. Perhaps, the biggest problem with me coming to terms with the fact that my pillow will soon span three decades is that, maybe, I never bothered to imagine anything at all.

Perhaps my pillow saw itself as more successful when it was younger, perhaps my pillow thinks he made some poor decisions along the way. Then again, how much better can a pillow hope to have it? It has a great bed, a beautiful woman that sleeps next to it at night, and a tastefully appointed house to live in, which is by all means the nicest house it’s ever been in. But why does the pillow sometimes feel like a failure?

It has expressly to do with time. The fucking pillow is almost thirty! By the time his dad was thirty, he was knee-deep in the career that would determine the course of the remainder of his life and he had three children. This is not to say my pillow needs children to justify his existence, it could even be said that the thought of procreation so terrifies my pillow that he’s unsure that he’ll ever be comfortable with the idea until someone forces his own small, defenseless and all-consuming loin-fruit into his arms, pretty much extorting him into accepting the idea on a meaningful level.

I think mostly, my pillow is just disappointed. Facing the prospect of thirty with no meaningful direction, no significant prospects of a lifelong goal and no oversized check for one million dollars to pose with, just makes everything a little more difficult. Perhaps it’s disappointed because the world didn’t tell him where he’s supposed to go, and what’s he supposed to do when he gets there. Worst of all, the world never told him what he’s supposed to be.
Facing the more philosophically vague concepts of joy and personal satisfaction, my pillow is faced with the prospect of having to figure all this out, and I think sometimes it’s daunted by the idea of trying to wrestle these Herculean notions so close to thirty years old, a time when most pillows already seem have a pretty good idea about all that stuff.

Not that my pillow feels like he’s been left behind. Far from it, when my pillow contemplates all his experiences, his assets (physical and mental) and the people all around him that love him and care for him and all that he has, he feels like a very rich pillow, but sometimes he just gets down because he thinks he’s supposed to always want more. But wanting more is good, right? I mean, wanting more will motivate my pillow to get out there and work for what he wants, so that by the time he’s rounding forty years old (yikes) he’ll just be a little less hard on himself, and maybe even a little proud.

My pillow has seen a lot, and been lots of places, and he has a lot for which to be happy and thankful, but I think a little self-deprecation can be good thing, especially when you think there’s more out there for you. But don’t think my pillow is one of those “type A” personality dudes with slicked hair and perfect teeth that always talk about grabbing things, and taking things, and not letting anyone else tell you that you can’t. My pillow takes things one day at a time and, at least I can hope, is generally seen as humble and self-restrained.

Despite the fact that my pillow is feeling significant anxiety about turning thirty in the exceedingly nearer and nearer future, my pillow has a lot to proud about. He lives in a wonderful home, he has a wonderful wife, he has wonderful friends and his family, while terminally psychotic, eventually find their hearts in the right places. Perhaps my pillow will find a way to focus that anxiety into improving himself in meaningful ways that help him understand the world and other people a little better, and god knows he would benefit from a more satisfying career. But these are things that will come with hard work, something with which my pillow if finally coming to terms, a great deal of patience, and whole lot of whiskey.

Washing-Ton

Don't Make Me Reach Back There!

Well, Mother's Day has come and gone and the doldrums of Summer are fast approaching. Unless, of course, you neglected to appropriately congratulate your mother for the bang-up job she did pushing your writhing body through her cervix, then you are condemned to watch this video, ponder for a moment the message, then call your mom crying for her to come pick you up.



Since we, here at the OTR are pusposefully forward-looking folk, we must ask you all to mark your calendars for the impending date of June 17th, 2007. Partly because it's Venus Williams' birthday, partly because it commemorates the day China performed its first successful nuclear ordinance test in 1967, but mostly because it's Father's Day.

Let's face it, kids, Moms are easy. Some flowers, a syrupy card ("Hey look what this other guy wrote in this card for ya.") and perhaps an ipod shuffle, and she'll be all atwitter with progenic love. Dad, on the other hand, mostly wants to be left alone. While not being around would be an simple and easily procured gift to give to dad, society (read: Mom) demands a bit more from you. That's why OTR is here to help.

Dads are hard to shop for. That's why there's that awful section off to the side of Marshall's and TJ Maxx comprised of bins full of golf ball washers, Hummer brand flashlights with magnetic backs and ties that have prints like hamburgers and glocks. It's not because Dads are more complicated than Moms, they just tend to have more storage space available for all this crap they'll be given over the course of their lives.

Dads, prepare to thank your lucky stars, and possibly that defective condom, for:

OTR's 2007 Father's Day Gift Guide

First, a question: Do you like being peed on? (Not you, Dad, the other Dads) Of course not. Well, say good bye to all your urine-related anxiety and welcome the Pee-Pee Teepee. Having never changed a diaper myself, I can only relate stories I heard corrobrated endlessly, that when changing a baby boy's diaper, projectile urine can be a real danger (also, when Dad's had sixteen too many Heinekens). A phrase that's stuck in my mind all these years has been "As soon as the air hits that damn thing..." betraying both the disguisting truth behind procreation, and the general disguist most women feel toward "that thing."

The Pee=Pee Teepee is essentially a washable cotton cone that is used to hastily cover your kid's pecker when removing that wad of cotton that you tied around his waste to catch his shit that will involuntarily leak from his ass until he reaches about three years old. In the case of my younger brother, the only infant with whom I can claim any experience, the shit will resume leaking from the mouth around age sixteen and continue with no signs of abating well into the early twenties.

Trust the OTR to show parenthood in the stark light of truth.



Does your Dad constantly threaten to beat the crap out of you and eat your face off? Well, you've likely been present at a Sonnier family reunion after 6 pm! On the other hand, if your Dad meant it affectionately, then do we have the perfect gift for you. First Chocolate, holders of the patent for the edible photograph (#6,376,000) are proud ton offer their signature Chocolate Picture. Simply upload an image to their website and they'll print it on chocolate for your visual and gastronomic delight. As an editorial note, I'd like to pint out that having them print a picture of cat poo onto a chocolate square for people to eat would be really funny.



Does your Dad love football? Does your Dad also love Jesus? Then he'll simply crucify himself to get his hands on any of these inspirational (and slightly heretical) statuettes. You can choose Jesus playing baseball, football, soccer, or basketball. I mean, Jesus is white, so he'd only play American sports, right? Jesus curling? Not in those sandals.

For the sake of piety, and since nothing they could do would make the staues look any sillier than a man in a robe playing hockey, each statue comes with a plaque that reads "Jesus is my coach." Considering this particular statue, it looks like it should read "Jesus and me like to spoon." As if professional sports weren't homoerotic enough.



Is your Dad a hunter? Is your Dad particularly accident-prone? Then he'll love the disposable body stapler kit from Cabela's. Now, Dad can not only fire into the woods with reckless abandon, but should a stray bullet wound his beer-holding hand, his hunting buddies won't have to bottle-feed him Budweiser until they can get him to the nearest ER for stitches.

The description on the website claims that the kits works great for dogs too.



What are the two things that Dads like the most? Like most men, drinking booze and endangering their lives on motorized equipment. Well now your Dad can have it all with the X-treme Cooler-Scooter. This handy little piece of inane human ingenuity features a 300 watt motor that will propel your dad and up to twelve nicley chilled brewskies directly to the emergency room.




I hope the OTR 2007 Father's Day Gift Guide has been helpful to you. Remember guys, while your dad was at a bar watching the Padres lose the $100 he was going to spend on flowers for your mom, he's still a decent guy and he deserves a dumb present that's going to find a home at the bottom of his drawer next to the leopard print Speedos your Mom bough him as a joke because he's really fat, but he still wears occasionally because he doesn't think he's fat. So on behalf of dissatisfied children whose dads wouldn't get them the fancy mongoose bike with the trick chucks and the front rider pegs: "You're not my real father!"

Is it possible to write about writer’s block? It seems that would be like talking about silence. I’m reminded of that great Steve Martin quote “Talking about music is like dancing about architecture.” I suppose I’m less suffering from writer’s block than I am stuck under a general malaise of late. It seems all my free time is spent trying find a better job, wrestling with the mechanics of returning to school (hoping desperately that the lack of discipline that soiled my last effort has passed like a bad case of the clap) and trying to come to the ultimate decision if moving back home was a brilliant strategic move, or the worst idea since Greedo shooting first.

Yet, here I sit, deeply needing to write something, and having nothing to write. My thoughts go to the great works about writer’s block: Throw Momma from the Train, 8 ½, Adaptation, and my all-time favorite Barton Fink. If anyone can write a kick-ass movie about writer’s block it’s the Coen Brothers. Barton Fink also happens to be about a bit of advice Ian Fleming gave to aspiring writers “If you have a book that just isn’t getting written, get a hotel room and a bottle of whiskey and don’t come out until you’ve done it.” Funny part is, he never specified what “it “ was, finishing the book or the whiskey.

I suppose I could write about my recent obsession with funny names. Rather, my interest in people whose names fit too perfectly with what they do. The really interesting part is that names like Baker, Jagger, Smith and Hooper were, in their origins, respective to a family’s trade (to save you the Google search, hoopers make barrels and jaggers sell fish). When I called last week to have the windshield in my car replaced because of the cracks and chips, I find out the guy that owns and operates Auto Glass Experts is named Rocky. The guy that oversees my employee 401K and the company’s stock portfolio is name Tom Risky. The guy that rolls his wheelchair downtown all day, back and forth, shaking people’s hands and blessing everyone is named Jack Legg. There’s a woman in Portland with a prostitution rap sheet a mile long named Oralia Cash. This stuff just sticks with me.

Also, perhaps worth mentioning is that charges have been dropped against the New York man that broke into a barn and spray-painted orange the testicles of three of the farmer’s goats. Conspicuously, the article omits why the man vandalized the poor farmer’s goats, but I think a safe bet would be that he was battling with writer’s block and, perhaps, alcohol. Just try and tell me you don’t feel the urge to vandalize animal genitalia after a few cold ones.

I imagine writer’s block is a scary proposition to those who depend on their words for a living, so in that small way, I can be thankful I’m not currently living my dream of writing for a living. On the other hand, if I didn’t have to spend six hours a day on the phone being berated by people with third grade educations yelling at me about “what y’all issurance gonn pay!” then perhaps I wouldn’t be suffering from stress-induced writer’s block.

The funny thing about writer’s block is it’s so specific. Have you ever heard of filmmaker’s block? They call that writer’s block. Painter’s block? Painters aren’t real artists anyway. Wheel-worker’s block? That’s just silly.

Creativity is a tricky thing: inspiration can be here one day, and just vanish the next. An idea for a story may pop into your head while you’re in the shower, and if you don’t scratch a few notes into your stomach with that razor, you may never remember it again. Of course, now I have the work “chicken-monkey” carved into my body and I can’t remember what it’s supposed to mean. No more booze in the morning, seriously.

I guess all I can say is that inspiration is fleeting, so take advantage of when it arrives, be it a picture in your mind you just have to put on canvas, or that Batman symbol you have some strange desire to burn into your front lawn with weed killer. Perhaps it’s the three sets of orange-colored goat testicles that haunt your every waking moment. Be creative, it feels good and makes you feel like you’ve accomplished something (even when, clearly, you haven’t). They call it catharsis; I call it being drunk.

There Must Be Some Kind of Way Outta Here

"So, how was your weekend?"

What the fuck kind of a question is that? How can any answer be satisfactory?

"Excellent! I found out that you can drink four pints of human blood before you throw up!"

As if Mondays weren't bad enough, some asshole in the office has to spend the first two hours making rounds between the coffee machine, the copy machine, and the cubicles asking everyone how their weekend went. First of all, why do you care? The answer is, you don't. You're just asking everyone about their weekend so, out of politeness, they'll ask you, and you can mention that your five-year-old got his black belt in karate on Saturday. The absurdity of giving a black belt in any martial art to a five-year-old notwithstanding, you need to step away from my cubicle before I put a fucking staple in your eye.

"Not so good, our dog Rusty died. Even worse, he died of worms so we weren't able to salvage any of the organs."

This job is seriously going to kill me, though probably not directly. The actual task of killing me will go to the police officers in the parking lot that mow me down when I exit the lobby with an assault rifle, covered in the blood of my co-workers, especially that guy with the ninja five-year-old. The sweet release of death; even better if I can get it done before lunch.

"It was okay. I think I may have contracted genital warts, though. Would you mind taking a look?"

People always claim that you're not defined by what you do for a living, but that's complete bullshit. Watch any talk show and it's always "Please welcome Dwayne "Dog " Chapman, professional bounty hunter and media slut." This is what he does for a living, and this defines him. What about the guy that works at the coffee shop while going to school to learn how to pretend to be an intellectual? Those activities, working at the coffee shop and going to school, define him until he chooses to change those activities. What about the unemployed asshole that smokes weed and plays Xbox all day? You better believe that people know him as Skeet Ulrich, that guy with no job.

"It was great! After five glasses of wine, my wife finally let me put it in the butt!"

What you "do" does define who you are, at least in an immediate sense. What's the first question you're asked at a party after "What's your name?" and "So, how do you know Skeet?" The routine third question is "What do you do?" I hate that question. I hate it because it's expected that you answer in a sentence or two, and elaboration is forbidden unless you do something really interesting. "I'm a trapeze artist," or "I work the impact hammer at the slaughter house," or "I'm a billionaire media mogul that owns %6 of everything on the earth."

And honestly, is there anything more pathetic that the "qualified answer?" You know, the pieces of shit that state what they do to pay the rent, then follow it up with what they do creatively? "I wait tables at Chesty's Sports Bar, but I'm really an actress. Here's one of my headshots" or "Right now I'm in sales, but I hope to have my novel finished by the end of the year."

The best are those assholes that don't even have any ambition and try to dress up their pathetic jobs. These are the "custodial engineers" and "beauty technicians" of the world.

"My weekend was fine, why, what do you know about it? What did you see? Who are you?"

But what's the solution? Does anyone ever get to do what they want? Imagine that thing you do creatively (everyone has something), now imagine getting paid to do it. Seems perfect, right? Except that now, it's no longer a hobby, it's your job. You've got deadlines and customers and you don't get to do it when you want, you do it because you have to, and that makes it a lot less fun because you're no longer in control. You hit rock bottom right about the time you no longer enjoy that that thing you do, and it becomes just another job you can't wait to quit.

The problem is that there is no answer. There is no perfect job, hell, there's no perfect anything. The best we can hope for is something that keeps our interest, something that doesn't make us want to murder everyone in the office then take our own lives, and something that we can feel just a little good about at the end of the day.

A great quote from Tom Robbins' Still Life with Woodpecker is "We waste time looking for the perfect lover, instead of creating the perfect love." There's a lot of truth to that, and it applies to many other aspects of life. Instead of waiting for the perfect person, or job, or house, or philsophy (none of which actually exist) you have to find the one that fits best and change yourself to be best suited for it. The very act of compromise makes it more valuable because of the work required to get to a place where you can be happy and feel good about what you do.

Except, of course, for me. There's no hope for me. My job sucks like you couldn't even begin to understand, that that fat ninja-daddy is the least of my problems. But the search is on and I'm certain I'll find a better place for myself soon enough. Maybe at your house.

Perhaps if I started charging memberships to the OTR I could sustain myself, because the generous endowments the Institute receives are barely enough to keep the lights on and fresh ice in my Scotch. If every reader were to contribute a paltry $24.99 per month, I'm confident I could clear upwards of $74.97 each month (don't worry Mom, you won't have to pay).