I’m not sure why, but I LOVE a good epidemic story. And this one is about how an epidemic cause an onset of ghost hunters, and subsequently ghost debunk-ers. The protagonist is one of those “science author women” who wear pants that sensible British people are constantly warned about.
The film is set in Britain after the end of WWI and the height of the Spanish Flu. Which had to be a pretty terrible time in Europe. You have like NO friends left. And the ones you did were riddled with survivors guilt and PTSD. No wonder people in America enjoyed the Roaring (Alcoholism) 20s.
Florence is a scientist and researcher who is hell bent on stopping scam artists from taking grieving people’s money for “talking to dead loved ones.” People don’t seem to like her very much, even when she shows them hard evidence that they’ve been taken for a ride. I guess if you’re already mourning like two-thirds of your family, you don’t want anyone pointing out your also an idiot.
Florence’s un-sunny demeanor aside, news of her aptitude has reached a boy’s school in the British countryside. Apparently a boy died from being scared to death by an entity and Florence is hired by the school’s headmaster and a teacher, Mallory, to investigate. Mallory offers her evidence of a haunting in the form of the school’s photographs. She reluctantly agrees and hops on the Hogwarts Express to Mr. Darcy’s House (I’m not kidding, they used the same sets).
At the school, the matron Maud super fangirl’s on Flo, saying she’s read all her books and just knows she will figure out the mystery. Florence arrives just as the term is ending and the boys will be leaving the school for a couple weeks, leaving her full run of the building for her investigation. A few boys might stay behind if their parent’s are in India (aka, they aren’t loved enough). Another teacher and the headmaster hang out for a bit but soon it is just Flo, Mallory, Maud, and a little boy left in the building.
Now obviously the house (and the exact replica doll house) start to get creepy and continues to escalate the longer she stays. She thinks at first she nailed the scary going-ons on a couple of naughty school boys, but then she sees something in the school’s pond and almost drowns so of course she HAS to stay. This might be because the ride back across the moors with wet hair is just asking for pneumonia.
In addition to hiring people from Harry Potter, some of Game of Thrones cast shows up, because British actors actually just hang around castles in England waiting to be hired for period pieces, the way day laborers hang around Home Depot.
The ending of this movie is more sad than scary. After my run in with The Woman In Black, I didn’t think I could do another British haunted house, but this is a really well done movie. When I realized it was the same screenwriter who did Gothic, I was prepared for some weird drug trip orgy, but it was just another sad English story. And the flu. The flu is actually scarier. Get a flu shot if you’re going to be around pale British children or old war vets.
Yes, I know I should have done this on the sixth day, but hindsight is 666, right?
If you’ve never seen the movie (like the scaredy-cat I am), an American ambassador, Robert Thorn, adopts a boy in Rome and passes him off as the dead son his wife gave birth to. Never good to start a family with a lie, but keep going. You’re rich, so this might work out for you.
At the kid’s fifth birthday party, they give him quite the country side bash in London (the Thorns’ new home), complete with extremely dangerous kid-size carnival rides and the traditional nanny suicide. Had to check to make sure this wasn’t just a “British” thing. It isn’t.
A priest from Rome shows up in England, I assume on a routine “evil child recall” notice. Thorn dismisses the priest’s plea to save him at first, but then he probably realizes he’s just blackmailing him. I sometimes wish a dude from Rome would remind me every day to eat some bread and drink some wine. Reclaiming my Body of Christ.
The photographer who was at the party is now very interested in this birthday party turned suicide, as anyone would be. So he decides to start hanging around the ambassador’s office and places he frequents.
Meanwhile, a new governess shows up and assures the Thorns that SHE won’t commit suicide because she doesn’t have boyfriends OR a home to miss. So there. This is definitely a “British” thing. They quickly realize neither of them hired this Mrs. Baylock but shrug it off. Come on, this is the 70s and you are in England and an American ambassador. Just check one reference. And maybe the first time she brings an evil dog in the house, you don’t ask politely to get rid of it. You take it out back and shoot it (it’s not a real dog, it’s a friend of Satan).
After a completely normal tantrum at a church, Thorn realizes his kid has never been sick a day in his life. Which makes me wonder, maybe the anti-vaxxers are worried they won’t be able to pick out the demon children from the regular children (here’s a hint, anti-vaxxers, you’re the demon).
The priest and the photographer finally convince Thorn that he needs to go on a scavenger hunt to kill his child. Sorry, Son of the Devil. Meanwhile at home, the kid is actively trying to kill the mother. Come on, why isn’t he in school or at least at a Nanny-Child yoga class or something?
The priest is now dead so the photographer and Thorn go back to Italy to find the priest who gave him Damien. Conveniently all the birth records were burned in a fire. The refer back to the “prayer” the priest sputtered to Thorn. In it, the scavenger hunt poem/prayer reveals the child will rise from the role of politics. Now…I’m not saying Tiffany Trump is the Antichrist…but….has anyone ever seen her get the flu?
Thorn is told how to kill his little vessel of evil and hurries back to London to do it. Instead he ends up getting killed himself and his son/5 year old demon is now free to roam about the world and bring on Armageddon. I imagine this movie caused a massive drop in the popularity of the name “Damien” and hopefully an increase in checking nanny references.
The “found footage” trend has officially become a genre of film. There’s no denying this. Although I’m sure it is still a sub-genre of horror. We don’t really see a lot of “found footage romantic comedies.” You’ve Got Mail was already about cat-fishing; we don’t need to add voyeurism into the mix.
Anyways, back to this concept: A group of five friends decide to rent an RV and tour the scariest Haunted Houses a few days before Halloween. Not “real” haunted houses, these are those scare houses subsidized farms and landlords of abandoned warehouses set up around Halloween to make money and employ…the unemployable (aka actors/sociopaths/carnies in the south)? While they don’t give a specific start point, it all seems to happen in Texas and Louisiana.
Now of course, this is a found footage film, which means every character is a terrible human being who makes bad decisions. The first one is when they sneak to the top of a haunted house’s roof and get thrown out of the farm’s scare house by clowns.
So instead of possibly rethinking this road trip, they decide to smoke weed before the next haunted house visit. Their little antics from the night before has gotten around to the “Scare House” community and they are immediately stalked by the very dedicated and method actors, who remain in character.
Not sure why after the fifth time of being stalked, they wouldn’t give up and end their search for the scariest haunted house, but hey, I’m not five 30-year-olds with unlimited funds and time off of work. Their search eventually leads them to New Orleans where according to underground legend, holds the absolute scariest haunted house there is. And to see it, your friend gets kidnapped and you have to go find him in the middle of a bayou. This is a real thing you can pay for. In real life. Because regular horrors in the world aren’t enough, you need the extra thrill of being stalked by a guy experiencing economic anxiety.
The ending isn’t an ending, because there is a sequel. However, I have to say, this was the first time I’ve watched a found footage film and didn’t want the characters to die because they were annoying. I wanted them to die because of their unchecked stubbornness.
The film is set at an old hotel in Connecticut called the Yankee Pedlar Inn, which is already a contradiction. That’s like saying the American Colour. This is the USA, we don’t mix British spelling into our own. We took out those extra letters so we could Tweet more.
Anger at etymology aside, this wasn’t a bad film, just…borrowed. The filmmaker was obviously a fan of older horror movie shots, and it’s almost a nice familiarity to the cinematography. Like coming home. Which is even how one of the characters who plays a guest at the hotel describes the place. I’m not sure if this is just a love letter to scary movies, or just someone trying to prove to his film college professors that he listened to every lecture.
The main characters are two employees of the inn, which is set to go out of business. The owner has pretty much given up on the place and is out of the country. The employees, Claire and Luke, are also amateur paranormal investigators. Although, they don’t seem that prolific since the inn is the only place they investigate. They also stay at the hotel while they rotate their 12 hours shifts.
Somehow, (I guess because there are still people who DON’T read hotel reviews online–AKA sociopaths) there are a few guests. A woman and her son, an old man, and a former actress-turned-spiritual guru, played by the Top Gun lady, Kelly McGillis (yes, I know she has done other movies, but everyone knows Top Gun).
Claire, played by Sara Paxton, has asthma, which is like a siren call for the paranormal. I don’t know what it is. Maybe the wheezing is at a frequency only ghosts can hear. I want scientists to investigate that theory, please. Claire also believes an old ghost story about a woman who died at the hotel many years ago, and possibly still haunts the place. She proceeds to tell all the guests about it, including the small boy staying there. If the mom didn’t bash this place on Yelp before, she certainly is going to after this.
The other front desk employee, Luke, says he has seen and heard things at the hotel even though we can tell he’s lying just to get closer to Claire. Because as everyone knows, all great love stories starts with someone telling you they see things that aren’t there. Even after Claire finds out Luke was lying, she can’t deny her own experiences. So the two get bored, get drunk, and then get bold. The trifecta of the start of dumb decisions. And their dumb decision is to go investigate the basement of the inn. Which is also unprofessional. You’re still on the clock, idiots.
If you’ve ever been in a basement of a New England building from before 1900, there is NO head room, and any normal size person has to crouch down. I’m assume because contractors back then wanted their legacy to be, “I’m gonna give you all this space under your house, but you’re ALSO gonna get scoliosis in the process–boom: you’ll thank me later.”
Horror ensures, obviously, because “drunk AND wheezy” is not just the name of a uncool rap album I’m writing. The only disappointing thing about this movie was the Lena Dunham shows up, but doesn’t come back later to be killed. Maybe in “Innkeepers 2: Death Forecloses.”
Teacher presents, best friend breakups, passing grades, late night projects.
Trips to Stewarts, backyard fires, music playing.
Laughter bubbling, small feet stumbling, doors slamming, snow boots dropping.
Dog barking, paint scraping, friends calling, papers crushing, ponytails flying.
And the Page turns….
Cell phones beeping, lines texting, instagram and facebook posting.
Broken hearts, dumb professors, tuition bills and cars stalling
Apartments flooding, Jobs sucking, allergies appearing and life questions answered.
Mist filled eyes, new good byes, dorm rooms closing., apartment doors opening, airports calling, and aisles filling two by twos.
They were mine, now they are not.
I drove the miles, I walked the floors, The hours listened to hearts beating, breaths taken. Worries non stop. They are grown, they are on their own. They need me less, they need me more. I am glad I am here. I am glad for all that was given to me. Even if for only the smallest of these, their moments .
Thank you, God, for all those years and for all these kids. My heart is filled, my life is too, with all the memories and with all this love. Farewell to you, my youngest, as you follow the others out that door onto a path, the one that is yours and yours alone. My love will always surround you.
Diets are like dreams. Everyone likes talking about their own, but no one REALLY wants to hear about yours. But I’m going to keep typing, because it is a distraction from not eating cheese. According to all of Pinterest, the Whole30 (no space, I’ve learned, between the whole and 30, which is also how your withdrawal appears–like a run on sentence with no end) isn’t a “diet” or a “fad.” It’s a “way of life.” Which is such a modern day solution:
“Oh, don’t like your relationships or your family or your job or your current living environment? If you just EAT DIFFERENTLY, you will solve everything.”
You know what our great-grandparents ate differently? Sometimes instead of baking the fish and broiling the potatoes, they would bake the potatoes and broil the fish.
Obviously, we are not going to eat and drink the same way our ancestors did. That’s just ridiculous. Food consumption has changed dramatically. For example, we now know that honey is dangerous to babies, milk needs to be boiled to not implode your intestines, and flash freezing vegetables is actually good for you. However, we also ingest a fuck-ton more sand, saw dust, yoga mats, and plastic than our grandparents. The filler they put in food now isn’t just corn starch anymore. We eat bamboo. Like panda bears. No wonder we all feel drunk and lazy as fuck all the time. And not just because we are Americans. Because we are literally weighed down with stuff only folks with pica would get excited over. The typical American diet is the Pica Diet. And the only reason no one has capitalized on that is because “eating shit” is hard to market. Even with all the weird SubReddits out there.
If you don’t know about Whole30, it’s a combination of Atkins, gluten-free, dairy-free diets, and morbidly low self esteem. Most normal people can’t afford the time or money to follow through on the Whole30 diet, so they will come up with their own bastardized version of it (which will immediately be admonished and shamed across multiple platforms).
I dunno, Bea, maybe mind your own fucking business.
I started on a Thursday, why not? Because time is arbitrary and pointless and ends up screwing us all in the end (just like this diet). And I was off to a terrific start. Firstly, all I did was fast because I ran out of eggs and nothing else is allowed on this diet that wasn’t rendered from the ground whole or product of an animal. It’s fine though. I don’t eat much at work. Since I’m so busy now, I barely remember to go to the bathroom, or look outside, or remember to water the fake plants.
Day 2 was better: less fasting, but more confusion. I understand getting behind less additives and preservatives, but literally everything I touch has preservatives: allergy medicine, eye drops, hand sanitizer. Am I not allowed to have Advil on this diet? Because you can’t expect me to not drink wine and also have to interact with co-workers. It’s one or the other when you remove pain killers from the equation.
On Day 3, I was debating just throwing my hands up and buying baby food. That shouldn’t have sugar in it right? Ahhh crap, 9G of sugar? No wonder there’s so many chunky, happy babies rolling around and giggling at sugar-induced hallucinations.
Being a baby is probably trippy as fuck.
By Day 7, I figured out what these people (I’m gonna call them Holy Wholers now) on the online boards were trying to narrow down. NATURAL sugar is fine, as long as it come directly from the source. And apparently, sucking on sugar cane is not “the source” so gonna be canceling some imports from Brazil in a couple minutes. Unfortunately, natural is one of those words being thrown around by the food marketing industry for the past 2 decades. Like “organic,” “artisan,” “gluten-free,” and “bulletproof.” Also, whoever started this diet had a serious vendetta against dairy. I don’t know if a cow murdered their entire family and stole the family jewels, but I haven’t seen someone take this strong a stance against cow milk since some tree-nut lobbyist found out you could get white juice from an almond.
As far as diets go, this is by far the most gimmicky I’ve seen in awhile. Which means the followers are also the most annoying. It’s the Scientology of diets. Sure, everyone is welcome, but you have to pay a lot of money, make sure you follow all our rules, and get your friends and family are involved too or else you can get publicly shamed. All the celebrities are doing it too. Stars! They’re just like us: Sucked into marketing schemes until you alienate everyone around you!
People who get behind fads like to defend it to the death, like Cross-fitters, or CBS sitcom viewers, or 15th-century Catholics. I’m sure it stems from a need for control, or some other psycho-babble, but these Holy Wholers are the MEANEST people I’ve seen in a long time. And I’ve read internet comment sections. These people condemn you back to day one if you accidentally inhale the aroma from your local bakery. They have hang ups and week-long arguments about fermentation. They can’t decide if bee pollen shots should be under “rich people problems” or “poor people problems.”
This was in response to someone asking why other dieters are being so hostile. Yo, you created them. OWN. YOUR. MONSTERS.
Maybe I could forgive their knee-jerk (mmmm, beef jerky…) reactions if they would just admit that everyone on these online boards are just “hangry” (hunger-induced anger if you haven’t seen a Snickers commercial in 5 years) all the time. I don’t get hangry , but I imagine if people are susceptible to this, they may have made some serious enemies in a month.
Well, before Whole30, people used to only unfollow me on Twitter for my political posts. Now they realize I’m just an assWhole (trademark pending).
Food isn’t the root of all problems, but it certainly isn’t a cause either. My problem with this diet is that they tout it out as a lifestyle, but don’t actually follow through on the “life” part. Food shouldn’t be the scapegoat here (mmm, goat cheese…), because our bodies come in contact with toxicity every day that has nothing to do with food. People work in areas that are breeding grounds for viruses and stress. There are toxic relationships, toxic vices, toxic thinking. We put things ON our bodies that are labeled as carcinogens (read: Avon), and we walk around our neighborhoods without paying attention to noise and light pollution.
Also walk around your neighborhood and notice happy dogs. Wonder which day of Bone30 this guy is on…wait, that sounds bad. Not trademarking that.
I don’t want to be a hippie or “off-the-grid” because, forgive me, human connection is more important than self-righteousness. This also is a very discriminatory lifestyle, as well. You have to have a disposable income (and no children, unless they are also on Whole30) to buy these items. And access to a Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s. Usually with a reliable car. And you may read the labels, but you have to read the company’s history too. A simple check on Wikipedia or Google reveals that a lot of these “local” or “independent” products are actually owned by multi-billion dollar corporations cashing in on a fad. Before Whole30, I’m willing to bet that 75% of the drinks you consumed were products of Coke, Pepsi, or Coors.
It’s just different shades of piss-beer, but the keg had a guy with a beard on it, so I feel like my life is less empty now.
I completed the “challenge” without much issue (at least my hindsight is telling me there were no issues; I blocked a lot of days). However, I felt like I cheated because it was done during the winter when no one was inviting me to go out, patios weren’t open, and sleeping 10 hours was easier than avoiding the cold grip of reality. Also, by giving up several vices at once, I may have accidentally picked up another addiction. I drank more tea than the daily Irish or Chinese grandmother recommendation. Just constantly brewin’ and stewin’. Like a thug witch.
Then came the fun part: the reintroduction of foods, or as the Holy Wholers un-cleverly call it, “reintro.” Not because I was excited to drink milk again, but because the articles written about “reintro” are AH-mazingly hilarious. Especially people’s trepidation about trying alcohol again, as if the world was asking them to indulge in black-tar heroin for the first time. Unless you had a 3-a-day absinthe habit before, I don’t think that Shiraz at dinner is going to make you forget everything you just learned. People were also scared about eating cheese again. As much as I appreciate holistic approaches to curing modern diseases, laying off the Kraft singles for a month is not going to make you LESS lactose intolerant. Just intolerant of biology education in general.
I’m not going out on a completely cynical note. Even though this diet makes me loathe the sugar lobby more. Somehow they made Americans believe “fat” was the virus in the obesity epidemic and “sugar” was just a silly environmental factor. Sugar is in EVERYthing. Why do we need sugar in bread? After Whole30, I felt like I was eating a cupcake instead of toast (mark my words: cupcake toast is next hipster bakery trend). This country needs a taste bud detox and go back to hardtack and gruel for a while. Oh wait, I’m trademarking that one right now: Taste Bud Detox. This diet was expensive as hell, I need some way to make the money back.
Honey, I depleted our 401k to meet my macros. That’s macro-economics, right?
If you want to do this diet because you need to figure out what in your life is giving you discomfort and pain, I will Whole30-Heartedly support you (guys, I’m wrecking this pun-life). And after you give up food and alcohol for a month, and realize it doesn’t magically reset your metabolism or eliminate blood pressure meds or give you back the hugs you didn’t get as a child, I will be here. With this nugget (mmm…chicken nuggets…) I learned: Life is more than fitting in your genes.
But first let me tell you about these crazy ass-dreams I had on Whole30….
A guest blog post by Meg Regan, a resident of Los Angeles.
Dear Mr. President,
I find politics fascinating. I’m surprised I wasn’t a poli-sci major because I feed on the news like some people eat up gossip columns. A communications degree was a good second best though, as it allowed me to spot bias by the time I got to the byline.
I assume it is because politics is just one giant study of human behavior at its best and worst. I would have been a social psychologist if I knew at 18 what I know now.
But yesterday I woke up and I didn’t want to read any news sites. I didn’t want to check twitter or read the AP, Reuters, BBC, Politico or any of the like. I wanted to hide under the covers and go back to sleep for four years.
Barack and Michelle’s America was an exciting and optimistic Republic, constantly progressing towards new and inclusive ideals. Despite inheriting the worst economic downturn in recent history, President Obama left office with the lowest unemployment rate since the Recession. Under his leadership, our armed services discovered and destroyed our greatest enemy, a human who was responsible for the deaths of thousands of Americans. By his steadfast belief that no American should be bankrupted by a pre-existing condition, 20 million uninsured and under-insured men, women and children now have healthcare coverage. President Obama paved the way for my friends and family to marry the loves of their lives and for women to have the coverage and support they have so intensely fought for, stretching back a century and more.
His administration was for the inclusion and appreciation of people, ideas, controversies, and debate. That was Obama. The cool uncle that you wanted to invite over for dinner and support his charities and smoke weed with. You felt like you were heard. Your voice was important to him and your character was valued.
And then you were elected and I, as well as many Americans, were scared. You used bigotry and loaded language to try and dismantle all of the hard work that came before you. You’ve slowly but discernibly started to chip away at the fundamentals this country was built upon.
But I don’t buy it.
You’re smart in ways that people don’t expect. You know what to say to encourage hate, to incite violence and to revolutionize demographics, all with a single tweet.
So as the populous that you seek to govern, as the citizenry that you purport to represent, I’m asking you to show us your next trick, to reveal the man behind the curtain. Because the biggest reveal of all would be to surprise this country and kill us with kindness. To act and to govern in ways that revolutionize and incite change. To support the working class. To empower working families. To deny the wealthiest among us their chance to use America as a checking account. The people that hold this country on their backs everyday, and go home with very little to show for it, wish this. The men and women of this country that strive for a better life wish this.
Prove me wrong Mr. Trump. Prove me and all your fellow Americans wrong. Help us get out from under the covers.
A monologue in an alternate universe, where Betsy DeVos’s logic is forced upon another aspect of society.
[AKA: A conversation between Betsy DeVos and anyone who asked her what the fuck she is doing here.]
This is my husband. He layers his clothes so he knows a lot of about “levels” of problems. That qualifies me.
BETSY: I am not a nurse, doctor, or medical personnel. I have never worked inside a hospital, doctor’s office, or pharmacy lab. I took maybe (mayyyybe) 3 biology classes in my life. I’ve read 8 books on epidemiology. I read The Fault In Our Stars. So sad. I fully and completely support everyone’s right to go to the best hospital if they are sick. If you can’t afford it, someone else will figure out how to pay for it. Not the federal government, though. Your county should figure it out, even if they are too poor. The public clinics are bad, and people need to go other places. I don’t think it is worth it to fix the clinics. They are failing beyond saving. I’ve never been inside a clinic, but I’ve heard they have old medicine. Just BUY new medicine. How hard is that?
Cancer gets treated in all hospitals. Except those where there shouldn’t be cancer. Because they are secret hospitals who don’t believe cancer exits. But guess what, I HATE cancer. It’s terrible. And you all hate it too, right? It shouldn’t be applied to people who can’t even understand cancer. So we should definitely just fire-bomb cancer and start over. No, I don’t have a plan if cancer comes back. Other people will figure out what that is.
Okay, I need to be in charge of the CDC. Right low. Yesterday. I am so rich, I don’t even need this job. That’s why I will be good at this job. Because people who are best at their jobs and the most diligent, are definitely the ones who don’t need the job. And my family owns a lot of the health products I will be in charge of soon. Right now.
What’s Zika and Ebola? Is that the new “trendy” names? Are those other countries’ grizzly bears? It’s fine. I won’t need a job after this. I’m too rich to need a job, remember?
Oh those are diseases? Ew. I believe that people should get a Willy Wonka Golden Ticket to go to the other side of town to the “good hospital.” And just get away from me. I’m spending a lot of money on dry cleaning since you “people” with “germs” keep talking and touching me and putting me in room with “contaminated” congressmen.
Easy. Done. I can totally fix this system. I’m definitely ready to be your secretary of education.
I’m not a bear, but I could be one for the right price. Or bad education.
Emergency sirens pass by my home every day. This is no surprise. I live in an apartment on a busy thoroughfare that is only a few blocks from a big hospital. I also get to see helicopters descend on the hospital rooftop. Ongoing emergencies and false alarms are a part of living in a big city, even if they don’t directly affect one every day. But that sound is still a soundtrack of my life, and I don’t mind. It’s comforting, in a way. Infrastructure and society are intact. “Your Tax Dollars At Work,” as the sign confirms.
The sound that grates me; the sound that settles in my stomach like sour milk; the sound that makes me perk up like a gazelle at a watering hole–is when I can hear the siren stop. If I can hear the siren stop, I know the emergency is nearby. It has encroached on my space and something is amiss. It may be nothing. Or it may be everything. Until I can put together the pieces, the bits of radio chatter and amount of police presence, and if there is that acrid smell of vinyl siding burning or not, my adrenaline won’t return to normal levels.
You don’t have a monopoly on nosily staring out windows, Dogs!
America was the apartment on the busy road for a bit too long. We would hear the sirens but would not become alarmed unless it directly affected us. And then November 9, 2016 came, and suddenly an entire nation has to care. An entire nation was transported to a freshman political science class and is desperately skimming the textbook for something relevant or thoughtful to say before the professor calls on you. Except there’s no professor. No one is taking attendance or has a lesson plan. It’s a cacophony of voices emanating from the left, the right, the center, the ceiling, the floor, the subbasement, even the creepy janitor’s closet. It’s layered and disjointed and not even the cocktail party effect can help you.
A cocktail will help, of course. Several. As many as legally possible.
I truly believe that just like the printing press, the telephone, and the subway, Social Media will be the great equalizer. For one, it’s free. People love free shit. I’ve seen people stand in lines for hours or even days for free shit. Never, ever underestimate the power of someone getting something for nothing. Second, social media allows you to think you know the world. And I’m saying “think” because there’s no way our brains can comprehend where everyone is coming from. But it least one can admit it broadens our perspective.
Or does it? This election cycle introduced words like “echo chamber” and “elite bubble” into our lexicon. They are derided and paraded as if people my age (the elder millennials) had never seen if before. When Facebook started, it was the ultimate elite bubble. You were only allowed on it if you had a .edu email address. That means that only kids 17-24ish who were enrolled in college could be on it. And if a professor somehow sneaked in there, the response was more like “Ew, look at this old dude trying to be cool.” We used it to ask for homework assignments, or see what the relationship status was of a new classmate, or once in awhile share 6-7 photos from last night that took 45 minutes to upload. It was boring by today’s standards, but it was addictive and it was ours.
Then it was open and the internet landscape didn’t just change, it was atomic bombed. And we grew up with it. We thought we were molding what Twitter and Facebook and Instagram would become, but as soon as advertisers and shareholders walked into the room, our control walked out. Money may now be 1s and 0s, but it is just as powerful as when it was 50s and 100s. I’m not saying anything shocking or revealing. We didn’t get something for nothing. We got sold out to the highest bidder while we were standing in line for our free t-shirt.
Which, by the way, I’m still waiting on, Zucker-face.
So do we even have control over our own thoughts anymore? Of course we fucking do. You are not a bit part in a dystopian young adult series. Here’s what you don’t have control of: OTHER people. You didn’t realize how many OTHER people were out there until November 9, 2016. You probably didn’t even think they existed, because their thinking and logic sounded too outlandish to be true. I was disgusted to find out that so many people on the internet actually leave their house every day and interact with other humans. And animals. An American middle age male Nazi was a fairy tale made up to make the internet more colorful, right? I made that pun on purpose and I will own it.
But HOW? How were there so many OTHER people you didn’t know about? Because for all mythical purposes, Trump is a siren. And not just the loud, spinning, obnoxious kind. I mean, he is the very definition of the metaphorical siren.
This is actually a recreation of how Trump found Melania.
His wails, screams, and banshee calls lured in so many people who were despondent. Actually, despondent is too weak of a word. People were downright desperate. People believed that their own core values were being taken away from them, and they felt they lost control. Here’s the fun fact though: they would have felt this way no matter who was president for the past 8 years. Or 16. Or 20. There’s a part of America that always feels like time forgot them. And I truly believe that they aren’t being over-dramatic or uniformed. They see a country going full steam ahead and someone forgot to ask them if they wanted a ride.
However, Trump is luring them to their doom and they may not even realize it. They are “respecting” his choices and “giving him a chance.” And they are missing the fact that they are about to be shattered to bits on craggy rock.
Wayyy different from Fraggle Rock. Much more fake yellow hair.
So who are the rest of us, if the others are out there. Are we Odysseus strapped to the mast? Are we his crew who stuffed their ears and refused to be tempted. Are we other sirens? Trying to yell the loudest to get people to our island?
It doesn’t matter. You could be all three. Or none. Retreat to your own island and care about other things. However, for those who are invested; who are worried about their own future, the siren is going to be there, luring you in with one form of rhetoric or another. This is a country where we are free to do that, as politicians and Glenn Beck have proved time and time again. Anyone is allowed to wail and scream as loud as they want, because this is America. What we all need to be worried about–what is going to make my stomach drop–is when we can hear the siren stop.
I’m not waiting until 2017 to start anew. Dates are arbitrary, but the sun is not. Yesterday was the Winter Solstice; the shortest day of the year. From here on out, it’s only going to get brighter. So instead of the traditional New Years Resolutions, I’m starting today. And they won’t be called “resolutions” because the very word is redundant. The solution didn’t work the first time, so you are trying it again? That is the very act of insanity – trying the same thing over and over again and you don’t understand why nothing changes.
I will call these “new-solutions” for a new season. The holidays get people in a mood for both nostalgia and change. Which is a very weird place to be. An exhausting place to be. People stress about keeping traditions alive, when the only tradition that seems to stay in place year after year is the act of being stressed. Then people put pressure on themselves to act as hedonistic as possible, because they believe some magic clock with allow them to be better after the holiday season is over. If a personal trainer, a college admissions rep, and Oprah showed up on your porch on New Years Day morning, you wouldn’t be ready to jump into changing your life. You’d probably call the cops.
“Do you have a moment to talk about Jesus and his devotion to Whole 30?”
This time, I’m taking my cues from the sun. It wasn’t showing up lately, but it is slowly coming around again. So slowly, I will come around. And I will become brighter and warmer because of it.
Cultivate a healthy outlook on life. It is NOT easy to do, and the results aren’t immediate. Today we know SO much about the world that we are starting to become numb to the outrage, the sadness, and the disgust. We see more atrocities today than anyone in history ever has, because we have the ability to see them all at once. In one screen shot of a Twitter feed you can see a dead child refugee from Syria, a crippled town in Canada due to wildfires, and women lying bleeding in the streets of Manila. In a 30 second scroll on CNN, you can read about anti-LGBTQ legislation, a terrorist attack in Europe, and a new heroin epidemic that has now reached our nation’s elderly.
How is one person supposed to process this? If news editors can do it, why can’t I? If photojournalists on the street of Aleppo can keep going, why can’t I process these images? But then I need to remind myself, it’s the same reason I can’t perform surgery or fly a plane. It isn’t my job. Sure, it’s my duty as a human being to feel empathy, but it is not my obligation to read every article and know about every injustice in the world. I need to focus on having optimism in the face of adversity.
For the new season, I vow to look at both sides of a problem. And not just the left-side and the right-side, the conservative and the liberal, the male gaze and the female gaze. I mean look at the path that leads up to the story, and the path leading away from it. Terrorism and wars aren’t zits that just pop up overnight. They are festering cancer cells that have been slowly eating away at the strong, healthy cells for a long time, but goes unnoticed until the pain reaches the surface.
Those are big problems, but the perception can be applied to an even smaller scale. For example, I don’t know why I scaled back reading books this year. Was there too much on TV? Was I preoccupied with wedding planning? Was I exhausted from reading all those news articles?
Hmm…This Netflix show is a little out there, but I’m going to give it a chance.
I could answer questions or I could start the path away from this disappointment in myself. I could pick up a book and read it. I could even start writing a book. Or write a blog post. Hey look at that, already on the path! And soon it will be paved and named Lower It Up Road and will have 13 Starbucks on it.
Love my relationships. I think a real marker of adulthood is when you realize you would rather have a few close friendships than hundreds of friends. There has to be an evolutionary reason behind this. When you are younger, you are constantly changing and trying out other people around you who are constantly changing. However, when you get older and start to build your “village,” you want people you know to the core. You want to believe that this person won’t throw you to a lion so they can escape. You want a person you can trust with your child, and not worry that they will eat them or trade to a neighboring tribe for beads or wine. You want a person who will nurture you when you are sick, and not leave you in a leper colony. Or trade for more wine.
That baby is nervous because he knows the next town just got a shipment of Beaujolais nouveau.
For the new season, I vow to appreciate and love my relationships. Each one is so unique and needs special attention. And obviously I’m making fun of people for calling millennials “special snowflakes.” If you treated every relationship in your life as the same, you would be considered a textbook sociopath. Or a cult leader. Just like growing a garden, each flower and vegetable needs something different. Some need to be showered with more affection, and some a perfectly content to be left alone until they start to be eaten by a deer. Some need a to stay in one place to put down roots, and others could thrive being re-potted over and over again. Some people hate gardening and want to talk about something else. And some people hate analogies and just want you to be real with them. And bring over wine.
Be patient with myself. Impatience is a useless emotion. And it just makes you look like a dick. It’s often shown outside with sighing, glaring, and muttering under one’s breath. When you are a kid, impatience usually involves not being able to sit still and asking incessant questions. When a little kid is impatient, they are trying to process why they can’t have what they want. So we teach kids to be patient for events, like Christmas or birthdays or Sesame Street episodes. However, somewhere along the way, kids learn to be impatient with people. If someone isn’t moving fast enough or grasping new information quick enough, we change from impatient to frustrated. But what happens when we become impatient with ourselves? We can’t understand something and immediately assume we are stupid. We are late for work and blame it on ourselves for being lazy and not waking up in time. It’s exhausting.
“Moooommm! He wasn’t listening to me fast enough!”
For the new season, I vow to be patient with myself and then work on being patient with others. It will be a lot easier to have empathy for others if I can forgive myself for being human first. I will give people the benefit of the doubt before immediately cursing them to the seventh circle of hell (or wherever people go who don’t use their blinker). I don’t deserve a second chance, if I’m not willing to give others a second chance (or third or fourth). I will remember that I was not put on earth to complain. I was put on earth to breathe and experience everything else in between those breaths. And some of those experiences are going to be shitty and gut-wrenching. But then I will get to the other side of those and find the good. I will remember that focusing on myself first is not selfish. I will put my oxygen mask on first, I will inhale and exhale, and then I will help others.
Lower It Up 