Friday, July 12, 2013

Short Story

An Evening With Mr. Greybeard and Friends

            “The rules are very simple,” he said, with his old blue eyes behind a mountain of wrinkles. “Are you ready?”
            I nodded.
“You will not speak unless spoken to. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“And you certainly will not ask questions. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“You will not utter a sound of what you hear today, for I will know, for we all will know, and, my son, that will not bode well. Do you understand?”
“…Yes, Sir.”
It wasn’t forceful: there were no pointed fingers or baleful tones lurking past the veil of his warm smile; and his frame, short and robust, was anything but alarming—for how could a man wearing a knitted red sweater, brown khaki pants, and with enough bushy grey hair that his face looked like a grey bird’s nest be alarming? The man was affable, affable as my mother (may she rest in peace), which made his words all the more ominous, for you expect portentous words from a man with beady eyes and slicked black hair—but not him.
“It is settled then. The others will be arriving shortly—at least I do hope so. Prepare four glasses of wine—red, rich with a slight burn on the tongue—and place them upon the round table over there. I would do it myself, but I have other things to attend to before this begins. Once again, I appreciate your aid, my good lad; you will be compensated for it considerably; I guarantee it.”
“As you wish, Sir.”
I bowed and began heading to the kitchen, only to stop myself. “Sir, where is your wine cellar?”
“Ah! Yes. My apologies, dear boy, proceed down the hall to the end, bear right, and head down the steps that will lead you to the basement; there, you will find a prodigious selection, I assure you.”
I felt a slight twinge of irritation. Dear boy, I thought.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
There was a moment of silence between us, a heavy silence, one that the creaking and cracking of the wood floorboards could not withstand; it was a silence where a man debated breaking obedience, where a man must force confrontation. It truth it was a simple misunderstanding, one that, in my younger days, would have been disregarded with the wave of my hand and a roll of my eyes. But I was not in my younger days, and my tolerance for such petty things was at an end; in fact, it had been at an end nearly twenty years ago. That’s what happens when you get old: first you lose your patience, then you lose your body, and then finally your mind—well, that’s how it was for me. I never had much patience to begin with so it was expected; fortunately, my mind had yet to deteriorate, wit and sarcasm not withstanding.
I felt like I was back in the days of being a private in the war, obeying orders with such faultless loyalty that a man could forget he was a human. I was his subordinate that was true. I was his butler. But this was a one-time thing: I didn’t do this crap for a living; I couldn’t obey every whimsical musing of some old fool—patience, remember?  Perhaps I’m making a mountain out of a molehill, but regardless…I hate being called a “lad” or a “boy.” It may sound simple, and it may be petty, but, like being a Private, if you never made yourself known, if you never gave yourself an identity, you’d find out quickly you forgot who you were. Looking back, I hated the military—and not because of the bloody fighting. 
I phrased it carefully. “May I ask that you refrain from calling me ‘dear boy’ or ‘good lad’? I am nearly fifty-three: I have fought in two wars, fathered three children, and have been lucky enough for them to bear me grandchildren. It is a simple request, but I ask you to please abide by it.”
The old man put his hand over his mouth like a child, as his eyes went wide in shock, and his eyebrows, like feathers that were wild, thick, and grey, raised to the top of his head in dramatic fashion, forming wrinkles as deep and heavy as his eyes. “Please forgive me,” he said hastily. “It is a force of habit, you see. I call everyone that. It won’t happen again, my good Sir.” I bowed and headed in the direction of the wine cellar. A good man he was, I suppose, a bit absent-minded, but sweeter than my grandmother’s sweet tea…then again, I had just met the man.
I had seen his ad in a newspaper and was in need of some quick cash—as a war veteran you don’t get much in terms of jobs because most people think all you can do is hold a gun and shoot somebody—there was my pension, but a pension doesn’t allow a man to breath; it doesn’t allow a man to provide for his family. His ad hadn’t said much: “Butler needed for one evening only; will pay considerably; must be knowledgeable, accommodating, and patient; prior experience not necessary.” So I gave the guy a call, and here I was, and besides the creepy rules he had asked me to swear my oath to a few minutes ago, it hadn’t been that bad.
The wine cellar was cold and dark, the air crisp. Slowly, I limped along—my leg was injured in the second war, you see, bullet to the leg, and it’s never been the same since—and grabbed something from the last shelf on the last rack. I didn’t know what the hell it was; he wanted something rich and sharp, but I knew nothing about wines—strong liquors was my forte, strong and dark. I ascended back up the stairs and to the kitchen, grabbed four wine glasses, and began to pour.  
As the dark ruby liquid escaped from the bottle and settled gracefully in the glasses, I heard a knock on the door. Setting the bottle down, I walked around the large kitchen countertop and crossed from the tile to the wooden floorboards, where I took in Greybeard’s house. The place was as prodigious as it was picturesque: the living room was made of wood and stone—wood for the floors, the bookcases that held rows and rows of books, and the walls, and stone for the natural fireplace that was burning smoke up through the chimney—with a coffered ceiling as high as a lighthouse and chandeliers, circular and made of iron, which held candles that were wonderfully alight—how the old man was able to do that every morning was unfathomable, for Mr. Greybeard could barely walk. A few rugs in rich and calm colors lay a strewn here or there, under a coffee table and a blue loveseat. There were no pictures of friends or family, no television, but that did not matter, for even I felt at home here.
I passed under a wooden archway to face the front door: it was tall, wooden and wide, with a black iron handle and a painting made of stained glass engraved in it; the painting looked to be of a man kneeling in prayer, garbed in blue and violet, as his eyes raised to the shining rays of the sun. Suddenly, I realized that’s what this house was, why I felt so at home: it was an old church dressed up as a house. I did not ponder on my epiphany for long as three dark shadows hung behind the stained art within the door.   
Guests had arrived.
Pulling quickly on the handle, the door swung open, and before me were two men and a woman. I almost had to laugh, for they looked like a motley bunch: men and women from different lands, from different races and cultures coming together for a country—or in this case, God only knows what they were here for. One man was tall, almost as tall as the top of the doorframe and had skin as rich and dark as the wooden floors we were standing on; his nose was large and wide, and the same could be said for his red lips; but his eyes, though similar in proportion, were dark, almost black—much darker than his skin. The clothes he wore, I observed, were…peculiar, nothing but black robes and sandals, and a white rope tied round his waist, acting sort of as a sash. A monk, I had to guess, at least he appeared that way: he was calm and kept his hands under the sleeves of his robes as he bowed and made his way past me without a word.
Next came the second man, a suave capitalist and professional if I had to guess; he nodded in his black suit and tie, moving elegantly past me with a perfunctory smile. Everything about him was thin: his frame, his eyes, his nose, and his lips. He wasn’t good looking, and he wasn’t ugly. He wasn’t tall, and he wasn’t short. I immediately took a disliking to him: there was something about the way the deep sets of his eyes cast a shadow in the light, something in how he carried himself. The smile was contemptuous, as if I was nothing more than a bug under his boot… I always hated people like that, ever since I was a small boy. My mother and father would work for every penny that they could scrounge up until a different kind of dirt appeared under their nails, one that wouldn’t wash away, a dirt made of grit, of steel, of long hours away from home and exhaustion. You didn’t get that being rich, and you didn’t get it being entitled. I never minded other folks, other children, having more money than me, but it was the ones who thought they were entitled to it that drove me nuts. This man thought he was entitled. No one is entitled to anything, and this world is far from fair—more great lessons from war, I suppose.
Mr. Slick left a stench of cologne as he trotted past me. Resisting a cough, I muttered, “For the love of Pete,” and heard a schoolgirl giggle come from the woman still standing in the doorway. She was a pretty thing, I had to admit, a real wisp of a woman. She had a slender appearance to her, but her beauty was not ostentatious; it was sweet, humble. With her head reaching the bottom of my shoulders, her stubby nose and blue eyes looked up at me with her round, pale face. Crossing her arms, the red hair, loose and lank, like wine, fell over them delicately. But she wasn’t delicate. She carried herself with the sort of silent conviction that was rare to find; I had seen it before in a few great men and women in my lifetime, but not often.
Her clothes were simple: a flannel shirt over a white t-shirt, a pair of jeans, and some work boots that were muddy around the edges. She had to be about thirty or so years old, maybe a little older—I couldn’t tell age much anymore; Mr. Slick looked to be forty and Mr. Monk had to be nearly sixty or seventy, but it was truly anyone’s guess.
“Mocking the guests are not appropriate for the butler,” she said wryly.
I grunted and shifted my weight to my good leg. “Laughing isn’t either,” I said matter-of-factly.
            The woman smiled and I couldn’t help but smile back.
“Michelle!” Mr. Slick yelled from behind me. “Let’s go. We don’t have much time.”
I stepped aside and motioned with my hand for her to come through. She hurried past me and I took a moment to gaze upon the dark sky before me: as if night had fallen into the dying red sun, the sky looked obscurely surreal, a dream in which no color existed except for deep blues, reds, and greys. A howl came from outside, and I wondered if it was the wind or a wolf raging deep within the forest (the house was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by trees upon trees and grass upon grass). Either way, the storm was approaching, the heat tangible beyond words.
Closing the door, I quickly followed the one called Michelle to the kitchen and placed the four glasses of wine upon a silver tray (I suppose I actually have to do my job today).
Motioning with one hand, I lead them out of the kitchen and through two wooden double doors into a room that must have been Mr. Greybeard’s study. There wasn’t much: more books, a desk, and a round table with four chairs. Mr. Greybeard was there busy tidying up.
“Do come in!” he said with eyes alight. “It is good to see you all again. How are we?”
“Fine,” Mr. Slick said tersely, as if the words were too much trouble, and sat down with a heavy sigh.
“Don’t be in such a rush, Gabe, or we won’t have time to enjoy the wine,” Michelle said and smiled. “How are you, Ralph? It is so good to see you, too!”
The woman ran over to Mr. Greybeard and gave him an adoring hug.
“I’m fine, dear. It is such a pleasure to see you once more. How many years has it been?”
“Too many, I’m afraid.”
After they separated, Ralph turned to Mr. Monk and said, “And you, Auriel. I’m hoping things are well?”
Mr. Monk grinned warmly and said, “As well as it can be, Ralph. It is good to see you.”
“Ah. Good to see you, old friend. Gabe,” he said, putting his hands on his hips. “Brighten up, my boy, or your face will permanently be set like that.”
At this, even Mr. Slick stood, smiled, and hugged Mr. Greybeard. “It is good to see you, old man.”
At this, Ralph hooted like a man who had drank too much. “That’s more like it—now should we get started?”
I set the silver tray on the round table and turned to go, only to hear a voice say, “Wait a moment. Who is the new guy?”
New guy?
“Ah, yes,” Ralph said. “This is the new butler—”
“Roy,” I said, “Roy Wellington.”
“Have you informed him of the rules?” Mr. Slick asked.
“Of course. He knows.” Mr. Greybeard nodded to me.
“Yes. Don’t ask questions. Speak only when spoken to. And do not repeat a word of what I hear—sounds like the military.”
No one laughed.
“Did you serve long?” Mr. Slick asked.
“Yes. Two wars.”
            “That must have been hard on your family,” Michelle said.
“It was…for a time.” I suddenly felt a sinking feeling in my heart.
“What do you mean?”
A tinge of frustration irked at me: I had just met these people and they wanted to know my life story. It was audacious, rude; it was arrogant.
“Frankly, Mr. Auriel, it is none of your business.”
I didn’t get the reaction I expected, for the man called Mr. Auriel smiled and said, “I like him, Ralph. Good choice. Nice to meet you, Roy.”
I returned it with a nod. “Anything else, Sir?”
“Not at the moment, no, but do start the chicken in the oven and return immediately; we are about to get started.”
“Right away, Sir.”
When I returned, the fireplace had been lit and the four of them were seated at the round table, staring at one another in silence. The second I entered, Mr. Greybeard rose from his chair and came towards me. Pulling on the wooden doors, he closed them shut and said, “Sit down in the chair over there, dear—I mean, Roy. And good, you brought the bottle of wine; keep our cups full until the chicken is ready.” Without warning, his eyes furrowed and voice became very grave, “Remember, Roy… Remember my rules.”
“Yes, Sir,” I said a bit perplexed and took my seat in the chair across from them, still holding the bottle of red wine.
With the door closed, the chicken in the oven, and the wine on the table, they were ready to begin, and suddenly, as if the comeliness of the house—with its burning candles, wood floors and deep colored rugs—had been sucked dry, I felt a tautness in the room, a tautness that comes when life and death are on the line, when a commander gets the courage to send his soldiers into a place where he knows they aren’t coming back. Whatever was going on here couldn’t be life and death…could it?
“It is time once again, my good friends, to discuss the matter at hand and come to a decision once more,” Ralph said with a sad smile. “It will be a long night, and I fear every time we do this, every time we discuss this, the wrinkles grow ever stronger upon my face, and my heart ever heavier; but alas, we must begin.”
“We will go around the table; each will say their words and then there will be a discussion, and then, by midnight, a decision must be made. Do we all understand the terms?” Ralph eyes flashed across the round table.
            Everyone nodded.
            “Who wants to begin?”
            Mr. Slick took a large swig of his wine and sighed, the demeanor suddenly changing from the haughty to a quiet sadness.
“I suppose I shall go first,” he said with reluctance. “As you know, in my part of the world, I see things that cannot be described, and that can only be hidden when eyes choose not to see. What I see, what I am forced to gaze upon day after day are the shadows of men—their dark side. I see pestilence, genocide, the killing of innocent men, women and children, and all the devils in between. I see too much of it. I’ve seen too much. Too much. This world burns with such ignorance and hatred, my friends. And it is a fire that cannot be put out. It is a fire, I’m afraid, that will only continue to grow. There is no end to it, for I have tried to find ways to stop it, to find people worthy, but from where I watch, all I find are men succumbing to the most diabolical wills and instincts. It must end. It must. That is where I stand.”
The words fell they way bombs did in the wars—with a quake that rose from the soles of your feet to your bowels, where it played the puppet master to your intestines, and finally, to your head, where it rattled what was left of your skull, causing a deafness in my ears that still hadn’t faded. It was truly a quake, a rumbling. What had I gotten myself into? Who were these people? And what did he mean when he said in my part of the world. I had so many questions, questions that I swore I would not ask. And so, despite myself, despite the burning curiosity and kindling fear slowly rising, I held my tongue, waiting for what would come out of the next person’s mouth.
Mr. Greybeard peeked in my direction and then said, “Alright, who wants to go next?”
“I suppose that will be me,” Mr. Monk said, arms still under his robes. “Unfortunately, I tend to agree with Gabe: my people…in the world I watch over… there is goodness; there is tranquility. But it is fleeting. Greed and envy and selfishness grow like weeds in a dying green grass of purity. I do not wish it to be so, and I do not wish for the outcome that I propose, but there is an inevitability here: I am not my brother’s keeper wasn’t simply words upon which a foolish man lied; they were a portent that heralded this from the beginning. What must we expect from beings so flawed that they strive for power instead of doing what is good and just. They are all the same. The suffering of this world cannot be undone much like water cannot flow upstream. It must end. It must. That is where I stand.”
Who is all the same? What did he mean when he said these beings? Were they not human? I laughed inside my head. That just isn’t possible… is it? And just what in God’s name were they making a decision on? I had to say something. I couldn’t just sit here and listen to something so mysterious and ominous without making one utterance. What must end? What?
I rose from my chair with the bottle of wine and walked slowly over to the table. Everyone leered at me, as if waiting for me to speak, half-expecting it; I said nothing, and cursed myself for it. The silence was daunting and the awkwardness grew as I poured more wine into their cups.
As I headed back towards the lone chair across from them, Mr. Greybeard coughed and said, “You may speak freely if you’d like, Roy.”
He had given me a chance, a chance to ask questions and get answers. He had given me what I wanted. But suddenly, my gut told me to wait, for as much I wanted to speak, I had only gathered fragments of the true story. Wait, I told myself, wait until I hear the others speak before I say anything. I must wait.
With a slow turn and a stirring in my guy, I said, “…. I believe the food is ready, Sir.”  Bowing, I opened the double wooden doors and headed for the kitchen. Grabbing the chicken from the oven, I prepared the meal, buying myself some time to think: I hadn’t been ready to speak; I hadn’t heard all the pieces yet. But whatever they were deciding on didn’t sound good.
I’m a man of morals: my mother was selfless as a saint and my father was a hard-nosed catholic; with him, there was no grey, only black and white—either you did or you didn’t and whatever you did or you didn’t do made who you are. He had a point, though I tended to disagree on some level: there were shades of grey; in the wars, nothing was black and white—nothing was grey either—just different shades of red. Regardless, the people in that room were debating on the death of something, and I had yet to find out if my morals would allow it. It didn’t bloody matter that I wasn’t a part of their discussion: I was in the room and I had ears—they shouldn’t expect a man like me to stay silent; then again, they didn’t know me. I laughed silently to myself: maybe I shouldn’t have called Mr. Greybeard for this job; I never was good at being a Private.
Pulling a cupboard open, I snagged a larger silver tray and placed four plates filled with chicken, broccoli, and mash potatoes onto it. Slowly, I hobbled back through the wooden doors, carrying the silver tray and holding the bottle of wine.
Mr. Greybeard stood. “Thank you, Roy. Would you like some chicken yourself? There is plenty left.”
“No thank you, Sir. I seemed to have lost my appetite.” A subtle jab—okay, maybe not-so-subtle jab at their little causerie of death—but I did not care. And my words did not go unnoticed: Mr. Slick and Mr. Monk raised their heads from the table like startled wolves and Michelle pursed her lips so tightly together water couldn’t slip through them. And I could see in Mr. Greybeard’s eyes that he got my “subtlety” as well, loud and clear. 
“That’s a shame,” Mr. Slick said with a sneer.
“No matter,” I said, as I drained the last drops of wine into their glasses. “I’ll grab something after.”
The night went on and dinner commenced. Rain started to fall heavily upon the house, and I couldn’t help but smile, listening to the hurtling of the tiny clear comets crash into the roof; a trickling quickly followed, as the water slide down the tin gutters and onto the grass. No one spoke as they ate; no one even looked up from their plates. But once the food was consumed, Mr. Greybeard wasted no time in continuing the enigmatic discussion.
“It comes to me then,” he said. “Auriel… Gabe… you see all the hurt in the world and nothing good about it. Must you not concede that what you propose is most extreme? To say that this must end—all of it—because Man consumes in the fallacies of the flesh is much too narrow of mind. This is expected. What is the triumph is that some men and women achieve something more and do good in this world—should all that go to waste? Is that what you truly believe? Have you become so hopeless what these humans have to offer that you are willing to sacrifice that? Unfortunately, my friends, I have made matters more complicated, as I disagree with what you have said. This should not end. Not yet. That is where I stand.”
I no longer heard the rain. I no longer heard the howling wind or cracking thunder. What I could only hear was my breaths, heavy and forced. My head suddenly felt a sense of vertigo, or perhaps mere delirium from what had just been spoken. I was in a room with beings that didn’t consider themselves humans. “These humans,” he had said. And what was “The end?” I knew. I didn’t want to admit to myself, but in the depths of my brain it hid, and, much like when I was a child checking for monsters, I had to look in the dark closet; I had to pull open the closed door. But I just couldn’t. I couldn’t say those words, even if they were only in my head.
Michelle flipped her red hair back and looked at me as if she knew my thoughts; at this point, it wouldn’t surprise me if she did. I stared at her with fortitude, thinking if she could hear every word I thought then she would know I wouldn’t let anyone leave this room if they meant harm to someone—my parents and their moral compass, remember? At that, Michelle smirked, her pink lips curving slyly before she returned her eyes to the table.
“There isn’t much left to say,” she said. “I am afraid we are at a crossroads, gentlemen. My thoughts are with Ralph’s: there is still much good to be done in this world. They have come such a long way and to take that from them now is foolish.”
“Foolish?” Mr. Slick interjected. “Where you see improvement, I see failure. They have failed to stop genocide, to stop rape, murder; to stop persecution and discrimination—and it has been centuries. You’d expect it from a race as old as an infant, but they have grown; they have aged, but they have not matured. They are still as petty as they were when they were children.”
Michelle replied, “You have always been known for your cynicism, Gabe, but what you propose is cruelty.”
“Is it any more cruel than what they have done to one another—and will continue to do? You’re too soft, Michelle.”
“Excuse me?” she said, her voice suddenly piercing the stillness between the four. “May I remind you with whom you are speaking to, Gabriel.”
Gabriel?
“Wait a minute…” I whispered.
“Please, Michelle,” Mr. Greybeard said, “Gabriel, I know this is a heated discussion but we must stay objective. A decision must be made. And it must be made soon.”
The old man pointed to the clock. It was nearly eleven: one hour left.
They debated while I put the pieces together. I didn’t bother wondering if this was real, if I was dreaming and I would wake in my bed alone in a cold sweat, or if this was some absurd prank being pulled on me. I worked with what I had, with what I knew; it wasn’t much, but it was enough. At the realizations I made, my hands started to tremble; my palms and forehead began to sweat; my stomach churned with terror. I didn’t bother questioning my conclusions, for regardless of whom they were—or what—I knew one, absolute fact: two of them wanted to end the human race.
The debate had turned to a cacophony (I had stopped listening a long time ago; so much for being objective) and it was nearly ten minutes to midnight. Slowly, I stood and put my weight on my good leg. I had been quiet in my rising, unlike the chaos in my head, but no matter, somehow they heard the movement, and quickly, all four of them stopped their bickering and stared.
Mr. Greybeard cleared his throat. “Ah...Roy, I—”
“Save it,” I said. “I’m not abiding by your rules any longer—how can you expect me to? You’re angels aren’t you?”
They exchanged quick glances but said nothing.
“Gabriel. Raphael. Uriel. But my catholic schooling never taught me about an Angel named Michelle.”
She smiled a smile as if impressed. “What angels do you know that start with ‘M’?”
Quizzically, I said. “…Michael.”
“Close enough.”
“You’re Michael,” I said, baffled. “You threw…you’re the one that…”
“Yes…what is it, Roy?”
“I thought you were—”
“A man? Yes, I get that a lot. There were some problems translating the word of our Father to humans.”
I had to laugh. “How the hell could they get that wrong?”
“You’d be surprised. . .” she said.
She stood in front of the rest of them, arms crossed. “You must have questions.”
“No, just one: how often do you do this? How often has it been since you last saw one another?”
“In your time, the turn of the last century. We get caught up doing other things.”
            “You meet every 100 years?”
“Yes.”
I cleared my throat and wiped the sweat from my brow. I had been in trenches taking bullets. I had watched friends die while somehow I had managed to scrape away. I had faced death itself and lived. But it was more than that: as you get older, you lose the fear of being wrong; you lose the fear of what people think; you lose all the fear that held you back when you were younger. I had always been a man of faith, but I wasn’t about to show them fear. I had never been one of those children who feared God and his angels. And I wasn’t now: I was going to say what I wanted to say.
“You meet every hundred years to decide the fate our lives?”
They nodded.
“Arrogant,” I muttered.
“What was that?” Gabe asked.
 I shouted, “It’s arrogant! Do you feel emotion?”
            They shook their heads.
            “Then you don’t know…you don’t know what it’s like to suffer, to have to live in this world; you don’t know true pain or sadness, to watch your best friend die in combat or to watch helplessly as your wife succumbs to cancer…do you?”
Silence.
“No, I didn’t think so,” I said, tearing up at the thought of my late wife. “You don’t know suffering. And worse, you don’t know bliss or true happiness; you don’t know what it’s like to feel your baby in your arms for the first time, or see your child do something you couldn’t. You can talk about it. You can judge it. But you can’t understand it. So yes… you arrogant, pretentious beings who sit here every 100 years debating on the fate of lives you can’t possibly understand…”
I started to pace.
“You talk about genocide, about rape, murder, persecution and discrimination. And you talk about there being good people left in this world, but you don’t truly grasp it. The bad of many does not outweigh the good of the few, because those good people have lives, have families, and have struggles that you can’t possibly imagine; they push through every day—sometimes those days are good and sometimes those days are horrible. But they do it anyway because they don’t have a choice.”
“Why? Why do they do it?” Mr. Monk asked.
“…It’s simple: they want to live.” I set the wine bottle down. “Now, it’s midnight. I’m going to leave this house, get in my car, go to bed, and forget this ever happened. I’m going to wake up tomorrow and I’m going to go about my day, see my kids, visit my wife’s grave, and do the things that I have to do, though they may not be what I want to do.”
I went to the wooden doors and pulled on the handle, but before I turned and walked out I said Mr. Greybeard, “Thank you for your time, Sir. It’s been an interesting evening.” And with that, I headed through the front door and out into the rain.

***

That morning I woke up in my bed, my head dizzy and my mouth dry. As I reached for the glass of water on my nightstand, my hands knocked a letter to the floor. It read:

Dear Roy,

We agreed. The bad of the many do not outweigh the good of the few. We will continue to monitor this world, but we no longer will leave its fate up to us. It’s up to you, you and every other being on this Earth. You can either destroy it or you can save it. Good Luck,

Regards,

Michelle.

Saturday, June 22, 2013

The top 5 things everyone gets sick of dealing with when it comes to sports

I didn't watch the NBA finals. I didn't care. It isn't that I'm not a fan of basketball--quite the contrary, in fact. So what is it, you ask? Well...there are several reasons, reasons that I guarantee not only drive myself nuts, but send the rest of the world into diatribe the likes of William Wallace would tip his hat to--or in this case, bow his lovely celtic skirt.

Thy words move not only my heart, but also earth and moon my good lad.

1) Announcers, Spokespersons, Analysts.

They all go in the same category because they all say same things that a five year old child would say when cheering on his younger brother or sister. "That was a good play." "Nice job, Timmy." The only difference? Tina isn't wearing a 1500 dollar suit and doesn't do it for a goddamn living. Let me be clear: say something that sounds somewhat intelligent. Don't say, "you know, Tim Duncan is just solid in the post." No shit he's solid in the post: he's been playing in the post since the Dark Ages; I don't need to hear how good he is in the post or how nice of play it was--I can see it was a nice play. Tell me something I missed. Show me a replay of a pick and roll that set someone up or an off-the-ball movement that somehow freed a player--show me things I can see myself. Most of these guys have played professional basketball, played against top, legendary players. Tell us what it's like to guard them, to shoot over them. Tell us how difficult it is. Give us a sense of what it takes to be a shooting guard and having to walk the ball up the court with five seconds left; yeah we know it's tense, but what's going through your mind? 

Do they do that? No. Is that only for basketball? Hell no. I can clearly think of soccer as an example: Alexi fuckin' Lalas. That man has a bigger head than any goldeneye character with big head mode on.

Picture for reference and size comparisons.

The funniest thing about it? Alexi Lalas did absolutely nothing for soccer in the U.S. Sure, he may have influenced some people, but how many kids have posters of him in their room? And that's his problem. He expects them to. They got clobbered at the world cups time and time again,  in a time period that american soccer was looked upon as the worst of the worst. Sure, he had some wins, but who cares: You're getting paid to get on national television to tell me that Spain is excellent at holding the ball--yeah, we know; any idiot with eyes can see that. Genius. Absolute Genius. 

2) Comparisons. 

We here it all the time: MJ and Lebron; Kobe and MJ; Jesus Christ and Lebron (wouldn't be surprised if that has happened already). "Well, Jesus walked on water, but Lebron took his headband off...ya gotta give to Lebron there: he's got two championships; Jesus don't have any." I don't give a shit about comparisons and the rest of the country gets sick of hearing about after the--oh, I don't know-- 1,000,000,000th time you've mentioned it. For the record, no, Lebron will never be as good as Michael Jordan and there are too many goddamn reasons why. End of discussion. I don't want to hear it even if he does get to six championships. Why? Because I"m not watching the game to listen to those comparisons: I'm watching the game because I've had a long day and I want to watch mind numbing basketball where I can get into the game and cheer my favorite team on. That's why we love college so much: it isn't as much about the superstars; it's about the team. It's always about the team. You don't see this in other sports, I don't think. Sure, there are some comparisons in soccer, but I don't know about Hockey and Baseball--I don' t know much about the sports so I can't comment. What I do know is that when I am watching baseball or hockey, I don't ever hear those debates; I hear about trades, burnout, statistics, possible playoff scenarios, and frankly, when I watch those sports, I see something that isn't in basketball right now: the love of the game. You listen to hockey announcers, you can tell they absolutely love it; they love how the game is played; same with baseball. But when you listen to sports announcers and analysts for basketball talk, all they can reference are the players, not how exciting the game is. Jesus Christ, shut up already. 

3) Money

The fact that there was even an NBA lockout with this shit just drives me up the wall. Whatever happened to playing for the fun of the game? Is that what sports have come to? You don't see that in hockey or soccer though (can't speak for baseball). Like I said, those players LOVE to play that game. They would be playing the game if their pay was taken from them and they were homeless. 
Where the fuck is my hockey stick? 

The point? What was the point of the NBA lockout? Hey let's decide how much money players get as compared to the managers. How arrogant are you? You really need that extra million bucks in your pocket? What's worse is some of them came from nothing and have forgotten that. You see some of them walk around with $5000 watches and god knows how expensive their suits are, and to what end? You deprived fans of quality time watching a sport they love because you wanted more money? Do you not get paid enough? Tell that to the goddamn fireman who volunteers and comes home every night to watch a bball game and can't because boohoo Ray Allen wants more money (I have yet to talk about football, but I'm getting there). America should have just stopped watching basketball at that point. It's honestly depressing. In a tumultuous economic season, where shit can hit the fan at any moment, job losses are rampant, education needs reform, and healthcare is so messed up and corrupt that there may not be any hope for it, the last thing we want is to have a little bit of pleasure taken from us because 23 year old basketball phenoms want an extra million. Play the game. You play for us. You play for yourself. Not fuckin' money.

4) Grow the fuck up

And that's another thing: grow the fuck up. You're not Jesus Christ. You're not god's gift to basketball. Here's a news flash: at some point, there WILL be somebody better than you. You see older, more mature players acknowledge this--Kobe and Tim Duncan come to mind. Younger players are so conceited and hotheaded they think they can walk on water. I don't blame them really though. Think about it. You're 22. You just finished your second year in college and you get all this media attention. You're unbelievable at putting a ball in a hoop. Scouts want you. Endorsement deals are on the line. You go to the NBA and get advanced 10 million dollars and all the sudden your face is plastered everywhere you can see it. Would you be arrogant? Yeah. So I blame the system, which I'll talk about next. But for now, you can see the immaturity everywhere, from in-game behavior to the twitter comments they make. It's awful. Who raised you. Were you raised to be like this? Were you raised not to appreciate a single goddamn thing that was given to you? Granted, not all players are like this, but some are--and they are ignorant about it too, as if that's just how it should be. No it isn't. It should never be like that. 

One of my favorite moments in sports is when UC and Xavier got into a huge bball fight and UC's coach goes to the press conference and completely tears his players and the sport apart. He says, "They are not here to play bball; people are here to get an education." That's absolutely right. It's a privilege. Playing Bball at the highest level and for your country is a privilege, not an entitlement, so act like it. 

5) Deification of sports

This has to be the worst. And the best example of it is the Penn State football scandal in which young teenagers were molested and all people could care about at Penn State was how Joe Paterno got sacked for allowing it to happen, not the poor souls who would have to endure that terrible event for the rest of their lives. First, that asshole should have been sacked. Second, football isn't a religion. It isn't God, no matter how much you want it to be. And the fact that we are at the point in this country that we can neglect our morals and childhood teachings just because somebody coaches fucking football is absolutely ridiculous and is possibly the most pathetic thing I have ever heard. So much goddamn shit gets overlooked for the sake of sports. Why? Because they are stars? Because they are more important than other people? That's just ridiculous. 

Want another example? When Lebron took his fuckin' headband off. I mean are we serious? Did sportsnation really just write a whole article about a headband? A HEADBAND? I could understand if it was something important like a chain his wife gave him, but a headband?
One headband to rule them all, one headband to find them; one headband to...okay you get the picture.

I suppose I should admit I'm not immune to this. I do idolize Steven Gerrard, but I would hope that if he came out and said he was racist or made homophobic comments, or touched little boys in the bathroom, I wouldn't love him anymore. And that's the point: we don't take into consideration character anymore. I love MJ, but he cheated on his wife. No one ever mentions that. I hate Duke but I love the coach (his name is too long) because he teaches character. He teaches respect. Have sports lost that? Or has this country lost it and sports become the vehicle with which it is visible to the world? I don't know. In the end, it just makes me want to scream. 

have a good one. 

--Matt

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Thoughts about Music--more like a rant really.

Recently I read an article that reported a blog post made by Patrick Stump, the singer/songwriter/guitarist of Fall Out Boy, commenting on how all everyone does is hate/troll anymore over Twitter, YouTube, and whatever other sit-behind-a-safe-chair-and-criticize-people social media website that the world uses. This led me to his blog post. I read it. I liked what he had to say. I do think he's right on one level: people can't seem to really encapsulate why they hate Nickelback, they just do; people can't seem to grasp why they hate Creed, Taylor Swift, Nicki Minaj, Justin Bieber, Rhianna, and any other artist you can think of that gets mass radio airplay over the pop stations. Patrick goes on to say that he never indicated that he himself liked Nickelback or Creed either, but that people should stop trolling and "defining themselves by hate." This is a valid point, and one that I should consider myself. Patrick Stump even went as far as blowing up his tweeter feed to someone who trolled him recently and the insults he threw back were pretty creative. The man knows his stuff..

But you know what...I do know why people extremely dislike those aforementioned artists--well, at least I know why I extremely dislike them.

I'll start with Fall Out Boy. In my opinion, the lyrics and words are just pretentious, fanciful, and self-dramatizing (see what I did there? the irony), but that is me. That isn't the kid sitting alone, depressed, wishing he had someone to talk to and puts a Fall Out boy album on and it speaks to him. That's different. I'm 24. I grew up with different tastes and so maybe I'm giving Patrick Stump too hard of a time on that one. Stump: 1. Matt: 0. But then I see the title of their latest album: Save Rock and Roll.

You google this  and find numerous reporters writing articles asking, "Can Fall Out Boy save rock and roll?" to which Stump has not replied. And I don't expect him to. 1) Fall Out Boy isn't rock and roll; they never have been. At most, the band is the apotheosis of an emo evolved pop/punk band, influencing legions of young teens in their youth that deal with issues at home, at school--whatever. I say emo, but not in a condescending sense of the word. I mean emo as in not rock and roll: rock and roll is a term that has its origins in sex (of course). When people wanted to get it on they would say, "let's rock and roll". Like everything, it has evolved. Music became its medium, where rock and roll could take the form of notes, of harmonies, of earth-shaking guitar riffs. And so, there aren't many rock and roll bands left that fit that criteria that are still touring. There aren't many bands that shake the ground they play on. I'd say the Rolling Stones, Red Hot Chili Peppers to some extent, AC/DC, Oasis (if they'd ever get back together), U2 at some moments in their career (my favorite band), The Black Keys, Foo Fighters, and The White Stripes (when they were together)--Jack White is some mix of all the awesomeness in the world so I don't consider him Rock and Roll to the full extent. There are others that I know I'm forgetting but these are the ones off the top of my head.

 2) Knowing that you aren't a rock and roll band--Patrick acknowledges this in his blog post--what message is he sending, and is the band sending, with this new album titled Save Rock and Roll? Fall Out Boy can't save it, and it's something beyond arrogance if they ever thought they could. Sorry, they just aren't talented enough. They're a good band with good lyrics, but there is a reason bands like RHCP, U2, AC/DC. Jack White, are regarded with such admiration and awe. They got something more. I don't know what it is, but take a look at some of Bono's lyrics sometime, particularly the songs, "The Fly" or "Moment of Surrender", or listen to how unbelievably difficult and creative and long-lasting RHCP has been and how freakin gifted they are. Look at how U2 has changed over the years. Listen to "Mysterious Ways," then "Where the Streets have no name," then "Lemon."--yes that's the same band. And maybe I'm biased--okay, I probably am very biased, but other bands have done this as well: Zeppelin, Beatles, Stones, Radiohead; they know that music--their music must evolve and become more complex, while at the same time still being able to appease the hardcore fans they've had since they were young.

I can forgive all that. That still doesn't make it for me. Though the bands I mentioned have these characteristics in common, they also have another one that is much more important: they created something completely unique and new. Edge. Enough said. He alone has influenced music to the likes of Coldplay, Killers, Muse, and any other freakin' band that uses a delay and echo pedal. RHCP blended punk, funk, and rock for the first time ever; and the Beatles...well..do I even need to say anything? The point is this: Who the hell titles their album Save Rock and Roll when they have never been a rock and roll band and never will be and will never have the talent to save anything except for their respective genre?

Sigh.

Patrick says we shouldn't have people like Nickelback or his own band, but you're asking for it when you title your album that way. Patrick stated that nickelback is working on being the best damn nickelback they can be. Oh yeah. You mean the I-use-the-same-four-chords-but-on-a-different-key-to-get-a-hit-song band? Cause that's what they do? Go listen to photograph, then someday, somehow, then far away.. same chord progression, same goal in mind: let's make a hit song to get popular with younger audiences, particularly teenage girls, so that we can make more money.

That's why we hate those types of people. That's why we troll. We get sick of the music industry in general. We get sick of listening to Taylor Swift write another song with below-mediocre lyrics about a girl in love with a boy she can't have or has broken up with. That's like romance novelists: they have a formula, they stick to it. The plot is the same, the characters different. The song is the same, let's just change the order and melody a bit. No effort really. None. Nobody cares. Sure, teenage girls want to hear it, but let artists who are at that age sing about those experiences. How old is Taylor Swift now? 22? And the best she can come up with in all her life experiences is singing about sitting around a fire gabbing about exes and meeting strangers that you want to have sex with? You know what most people were going through at 22? Life adjustment issues. Moving away from family. Changing Roles. Accumulation of Responsibilities. Some people went through Divorce. Depression. Thoughts of Suicide. Deaths in the family. Deaths in your friendships--real or symbolically. Ask yourself when you were 22 which would you find more relevant, which would connect with you the most: that Taylor Swift song or someone talking about leaving home for the first time, having to do things on their own, etc.? That song isn't a song about someone at 22; it's a song about someone at 15, masquerading like its supposed to be 22-year-olds. It shows the lack of maturity and how Taylor has yet to leave high school.

Why do we hate Justin Bieber? Because he won a goddamn milestone award for his ingenuity and musical innovation at the tender age of 17 when he hasn't done a damn thing (this was voted by fans). His music hasn't created anything new. He isn't Daft Punk. He didn't define Blue-Eyed Soul like Billy Caldwell, Hall and Oates, and Michael McDonald. He isn't Bill Withers, Al Green, Earth, Wind, and Fire; he didn't define Motown like the Spinners and he isn't changing Motown like Fitz and the Tantrums are doing right now. He didn't freakin' define Rock and Roll like Clapton, Cream, Zeppelin, and numerous other bands emerging in the 1960s, and he isn't changing it like Jack White, RHCP, and the Black Keys are doing right now. I don't care if he writes what he writes. He can write stuff like "boyfriend"; it's age appropriate. That's what I would be writing if I was 17. But don't wear your pants below your damn knees and walk around like your god's gift to music. You have nothing to be arrogant about and you should know that.

But I really don't blame him. I blame the industry and I blame the lack of education in homes about music, what's good what's bad. I know that sounds pedantic and austere, but we let our teens listen to crap. And it shouldn't be a big deal. I know it, and I really don't know why I'm so pissed about all this. I guess its because I believe music should be more than what some artists represent it be. It should be more than making money. It should be about Tupac writing about his struggles to get out of the hell he was in; it should be about Billy Guy singing the blues or Stevie Ray Vaughan talking about his struggle with alcoholism. It should be something that opens our mind to new ways of singing or playing guitar (Jimmy Page, Edge). It should be about fighting for a cause, or an anthem for the poor.  It should be about the terrible heartache that individuals go through and about the joys of love, about the mind-numbingness of death in a family or friend, and about the injustices of this world.

Remember the first Black Eyed Peas song that was a hit single? It was about what was wrong with the world and now what are they singing about? Exactly. The same goes with Maroon 5: Adam Levine is so damn talented and yet he writes these sappy pop songs to make money. So do other bands and artists like Taylor Swift. The point? The sad pathetic point? You're wasting your talent. You have the opportunity to do something more with it and here you are caught up in the short-term aspect of things when you could do what U2 does and change the face of music. Okay done ranting. Whew.


Wednesday, May 29, 2013

A psychological analysis of Sam, Frodo, and Gollum.

I recently submitted a vlog (video blog) submission to geek and sundry as a potential pitch to be one of their video bloggers. Here was the concept: I would do a weekly vlog about characters, themes, tv shows, etc., that were nerdy only I would put my own psychological twist, interpretation, and/or analysis on the subject matter because of my background and passions (not bad, right? I thought it was an OK idea, maybe not the funniest). Anyways, we shall see how it turns out.

What I would like to write about is the actual example I gave in my vlog pitch: the relationships between Sam, Frodo, and Gollum in LOTR and the concept of the ring and what it represents. Here's what I asked: Why do we like Samwise Gamgee? Why do we love him the most as a character? And it isn't as simple as he has qualities that are noble or loyal. To understand Sam, to understand why we like Sam, we have to go back to the original books and the origins of Sam.

Samwise Gamgee was the Baggins' gardener. He was from a lesser class. He was--dare I say--the outcast of the four. No, not outcast, but perhaps, out of the ordinary. Frodo, Merry, and Pippin, dreamed of adventure, dreamed of leaving the Shire and living the stories in which they read in books. Sam enjoyed telling and reading those stories as well, but he didn't care for it: he wanted to stay in the Shire, have kids, raise a family. But what happens? He goes because of Frodo, because he's a loyal friend, despite all the great things that could keep him happy in the Shire. He has no special powers. He is not charged with any quest deemed by fate. He is completely ordinary, while his actions are extraordinary. That is one reason that Sam is so special. He's the underdog in LOTR, the lowest of the low, and he does the most with what he's got.

What develops is one of the most interesting--at least for me--psychological examples of writing that has ever happened in fantasy. It isn't seen much until the company parts ways and Frodo, Sam, and Gollum are left to fend for themselves as they travel toward Mount Doom. We, as viewers and readers, see a major difference between Frodo and Sam: Frodo's behavior/actions are easily manipulated by the situation; people easily influence Frodo--the constant push and pull of Sam and Gollum on him is what I'm talking about here. Frodo's actions are so malleable that he becomes to the reader, completely undependable--which allows us to not be surprised when he fails to throw the ring into Mount Doom. Gollum is able to manipulate Frodo so well that he reaches the point where he abandons his best friend who has been with Frodo since as long as he can remember. Sam, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. He is an anchor in the midst of chaos. We can't cling to Frodo; we can't cling to Gollum; we can't cling to Gandalf (he dies). We can cling to Aragorn, Merry, or Pippin, but they aren't essential--if they died the world will still be saved if Frodo can drop the ring into Mount Doom. Thus, Tolkien presents a beautiful contrast: Frodo is completely undependable, while Sam is completely dependable. He's loyal to a fault. He loves Frodo unconditionally. And no matter what the situation, you know his actions are true and geared towards the greater good.

Besides Sam having the most poignant moments and sayings in the books and movies alike, he also represents something else: moral purity. The ring is used as a vehicle for this. At first glance, the ring represents power--it's the most obvious conclusion to make because of all the shit surrounding it. Evil desires it, while Good desires to destroy it. But the ring itself isn't evil is it? It's a ring. How could it possibly be evil? The ring is an external manifestation of human flaws: For Boromir it was power. Boromir wanted power and that's what drew him to the ring. For Frodo, it's mistrust, its the manifestation of human flaws in physical form. The ring distorts the purity of Frodo. It taints the love between Frodo and Sam (not homosexual love, but I'm sure there is literature on that). A writer mentioned a psychological analysis of these three and said that Frodo and Gollum represented the best and worst qualities of Sam (i.e., Frodo the noble/moral and Gollum the instinctual/addictive need). I disagree. Sam represented the best qualities of Frodo.

As for Gollum, the ring was an external manifestation of instinct. A Jekyl and Hyde phenomenon. Under the ring's spell, he killed his friends/relatives.  The split personality develops, one wanting to do good, the other wanting to do total evil (Jekyl and Hyde); Gollum represents an age old theme: the duality of man. He was addicted to it like Jekyl was to Hyde. He loved himself and he hated himself. He loved the ring and hated the ring. Jekyl loved Hyde...and hated him. "My precious" comes to mind. It was a love of sorts. A love and hate relationship. An addictive love, kinda like Heathcliff and Catherine in Wuthering Heights. Okay that's all I got. Have a good one, guys.

--Matt




Sunday, May 12, 2013

Evolution: Sometimes its a pain

I was in a restaurant the other day called Diamond Thai (they obviously specialize in Thai food) here in Sioux City, Iowa, and besides the fact that they make great pad thai, I had the opportunity to eavesdrop on a conversation that was going on at the table next to me. Okay, I don't like to eavesdrop, but when your little chitter chatter is louder and more irritating than the garbage truck I hear every morning at 5am, then I have a right to drop into the conversation.

Anyways, they were talking about men--it was a group of ladies talking, well, not really talking, but venting about the woes of men. The concept in question was an age old thing that women complain about: men don't listen; we want to solve everything. All right, yeah ladies you're right: men want to solve everything; we want to do it because we think that's the best way to make you happy--we are not saying its right, just that that is how we think. Women want someone to listen, just to provide a welcoming ear, and to be able to empathize with the problem. They don't want it solved; they can do it on their own, but what they don't have is someone that shows they truly care about the problem, well, once again, they do (their friends), but sometimes they don't want to talk about it with their friends: they want to talk about it with you because you're her partner; you're her best friend (theoretically).

This blog post isn't intended to complain about women or men for that matter, but as I sat there, I looked across to Euodia (she's a grad student in the same program as me) and I started to laugh: You see, ladies, evolutionarily speaking, men solving problems for women has been the way to A) protect them, B) show they care, and C) get them into bed. Think about it: Men who proved their physical prowess by fighting, protecting, and showing they can produce viable offspring are the ones that get picked. This is still seen today in humans, but only much subtler ways. This has been hundreds upon thousands of years of evolutionary behavior; it is only recently--say, the 1960s or so--that this has really started to change (e.g., women becoming bread winners, fighting for rights of equality, equal pay, sexual liberation, feminism in movies, books, etc). The point: it's going to take us guys awhile to change (sorry, I know its frustrating, be patient).

So, taking a break from the guy bashing at the Diamond Thai place, I'm going take this opportunity to talk about some more disturbing evolutionary behaviors that both ladies and men can be lucky we don't do.

Case 1) Male Redback Spider:

So some species of spiders, the female spider being the more powerful and also being the one that needs to provide for the offspring will forcefully eat the male spider during or after copulation; however, this concept is much more interesting in the male redback spiders. The males in this species during copulation voluntarily place their abdomen over the female's mouth to be devoured. Why? Research has shown that after their first round of copulation, the likelihood that they are able to produce offspring is highly unlikely, and therefore, the first time is their best chance of having kids. Somehow they know this and therefore want to do as much as possible to make that happen, even if that means sacrificing themselves to provide the female with additional nutrients and supplies for food in the coming months--which is what they do.

Case 2) The Argentinian Lake Duck

The Argentinian Lake Duck has the longest penis of any bird species (yeah guys, get excited), but it isn't what you think. There is an evolutionary adaptation for this: women sometimes try and escape during copulation with a male Lake Duck and so what does he do? He "lassos" that's right he "lassos" the female with his penis, throwing it around her neck so she can't escape... in a sense, he's a serial rapist.

Case 3) Honeybee.

The queen bee gets a select few of males to copulate with her. They are the select few amongst many, many men, kinda like the bacholerette--actually, no, more like the hunger games. Male honeybees (the ones chosen) begin copulating and at the end of it their penis breaks off inside the queen, and their testicles explode. Yeah. Think about that guys. The reason has complete evolutionary basis: the snapped-off penis acts as a genital plug from other males, preventing them from copulating, and thus, allow them to have their offspring continue. And obviously, when the male honeybee does this, he dies. So. yay for men.

Case 4) Greylag Geese

Something interesting is happening in the Greylag Geese: Males are choosing other males to mate with. No one knows why, but some theories are that there is no sexual dimorphism in the species--that is, you can't tell, from human observation, the difference between male and females. And so researchers think that they males can't either. However, contrary to this, some scientists are suggesting this isn't the case, citing the fact that when engaging in pre-copulatory rituals, men exhibit significantly different behavioral gestures that women don't exhibit, and thus, theoretically, male geese should know its a male by how they act. How do females compensate for this? They slip in during male to male copulation in order for their eggs to become fertilized--clever little things aren't they?






Okay, I told you for the last time: I didn't know it was a dude. I'm blind as a bat and I'm not that smart.


Okay, so back to this convo I was listening to. As I talked with Euodia about it, I wondered about it all and said, "You know, maybe in a thousand years, women will be around the table gabbing and saying, 'why can't my man just solve a problem for me? Does he always have to listen?'".... This maybe true, but what is probably truer and already starting to happen is what Euodia replied with: "With all the female advancement in women's rights, feminism, etc., I think it will be Men in a thousand years gabbing about how women always want to solve everything." Bahaha how true is that? I could definitely see it. I mean come on. Guys, how awesome would it be to be a stay-at-home Dad? Okay, yeah taking care of the kids would be hard and accepting the fact that your wife is the breadwinner or that you might not have a career until later in life may be hard to accept, but people (men) are already doing this. What is the evolutionary palette going to look like in a hundred years, hell even fifty years? Hopefully, it won't be like the honeybee or the redback spider where we are killing ourselves for our women--we've already done that years ago in many cultures. But perhaps it may look like Euodia said: men sitting around chit chatting about women and how they don't listen. Sounds like something I would see in a Sitcom. So next time if your complaining about the opposite sex just remember that, on both sides, we are fighting years upon years of evolutionary mechanisms. Be patient. =). All the best.

--Matt


Friday, April 19, 2013

Six Mental Health Myths Debunked: A possible Cracked Pitch, but not likely.

There’s a much all-too-common stigma around mental health: In a day and age where men are skydiving from outer space, a pope can just up and quit, and crazy ass scientists from Australia are cloning an extinct species of frog—yeah that’s right, you heard me correctly; Jurassic Park can and will happen—there is still stigma and misconceptions about mental health, what it truly means versus what we, as the general public, believe it to be.
http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2013/03/19/extinct-frog-cloned-mouth-birth_n_2901152.html)




Back from the dead, bitch!"






 











 




1) Mental Illness is a sign of weakness.

An all-too-common misconception the public and even those suffering from a mental illness believe is that psychological afflictions and disorders are a sign of weakness, and if you were just man enough you’d be able to overcome it.













In your best Arnold Impression: "Depression is for pussies."

http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/mr.%20olympia

Here are the facts:

First, there is significant body of literature that strongly suggests a genetic component to every disorder. How do researchers determine this? They examine studies of monozygotic and dizygotic twins—that is, they ask what is the likelihood a twin will have the psychological disorder if the other twin already has it; or they look at the elevated risk an offspring will be subjected to if a parent or parents suffer from the psychological disorder; adoption studies are the last method, which determine ones elevated risk when separated from parent or parents who have the disorder.

http://www.personalityresearch.org/papers/haimowitz.html

For example, research on schizophrenia has suggested there is a 50-75% probability that, with regards to monozygotic twins, if one sibling had it, the other would, and when both parents had schizophrenia, there was around a 30-40% probability the child would develop the disorder http://www.schizophrenia.com/research/hereditygen.htm

This heritability is similar for other disorders like Bipolar, Major Depressive Disorder, and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. The point? You can’t control your genes. People blame themselves for suffering from something they can’t control, like believing it was your fault they made another transformers movie. It isn’t. And don’t worry: we all have to suffer with that crap.
http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/8956681;

Mental illness isn’t like diabetes, a broken bone, or cancer: there isn’t a test for mental illness, and you can’t see it, which causes individuals to see the psychological difficulties they experience as character flaws rather than symptoms or patterns of behavior that can be treated through therapy and medication. An interesting finding: in attempting to predict what will lead to chronic posttraumatic stress disorder, researchers discovered that individuals who believed their psychological affliction was a sign of weakness had poorer outcomes. Thus, the mere perception that one’s psychological suffering as weakness impedes future well-being (Ehlers, A., & Clark, D. M. (2006). Predictors of chronic posttraumatic stress disorder: Trauma memories and appraisals. In B. O. Rothbaum (Ed.), Pathological anxiety: Emotional processing in etiology and treatment (pp. 39– 55). New York: Guilford Press).

Now, many individuals will say there are environmental influences that play a role—and that we can control them. Not likely. In individuals who have developed, say, Borderline Personality Disorder, there was a very good chance that they were physically or sexually abused as a child.


http://www.bpddemystified.com/what-is-bpd/causes

http://www.dbtselfhelp.com/html/borderline_personality_disorde.html
http://www.hakomiinstitute.com/Forum/Issue19-21/4Linda%20Baird,%20Childhood%20Trauma2.pdf


Fun right? Here are a few other nuggets about how much control we have: lead poisoning while in your mother’s womb can lead to an increased risk for schizophrenia; let’s not forget individuals who experience a traumatic event and develop PTSD; and, would you believe it, there are actually theories on the evolutionary imperative for developing depression.

http://www.scientificamerican.com/article.cfm?id=depressions-evolutionary

What does Darwin have to say about that?




















"That's my shit. Now will you excuse me, I have to shave my beard: I think there is a finch hiding under it."

http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Charles_Darwin


2) People suffering from mental illness are violent in nature.

 

The media destroys the truth, especially when it comes to mental health. The school shooting in Connecticut, the Denver, Colorado movie theater massacre, and Columbine, are all prime examples. Everyone wants to know why. What could make someone do such a thing? And what do they assume? Mental illness. He was deranged. He was schizophrenic. He had Bipolar Disorder or was slightly autistic.


The truth: People suffering from mental illness are more likely to be victims than perpetrators. According to Hiday et al. (1999), “People with severe mental illnesses, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder or psychosis, are 2 ½ times more likely to be attacked, raped, or mugged than the general population. This is reiterated by the Institute of Medicine (2006) when they state that although there appears to be a link between mental illness and violence, “the small contribution of people with mental illnesses to overall rates of violence is small, and further, the magnitude of the relationship is greatly exaggerated in the minds of the general population” (Hiday, V. A. (2006). Putting Community Risk in Perspective: a Look at Correlations, Causes and Controls. International Journal of Law and Psychiatry, 29, 316-331.

 

Institute of Medicine, Improving the Quality of Health Care for Mental and Substance-Use Conditions. Washington, DC: Institute of Medicine, 2006.

 

Television, movies, and the media love to attribute the crimes committed by individuals to mental illness because it’s an easy explanation; there could be other factors, but the general public doesn’t see this,  and what you’re left with is people believing every schizophrenic is ready to unload on them with a shotgun.

 

3) Psychologists are all old men with long grey beards and a couch.

 

Seems a somewhat trite myth when compared to the aforementioned ones above. But let’s be honest: who doesn’t think of psychologists as some old cooks with big coke bottle glasses and a beard that looks like a baby koala died on their chin?

 


 

 
“…I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you. And what the hell is on my face?”

 

Coke bottle glasses aside, Gandalf fits the prototype pretty well.

 

This myth developed due probably to Freud and his ostentatious beard. When the general public thinks of psychology, they almost immediately jump to Freud and that classic image of him with his pipe, glasses, and, of course, the dead baby koala beard.

 

The truth: Men are, in fact, the minority in the field of psychology. According to the American Psychological Association, the percentage of men in the field dropped from 70% to 30% from 1975 to 2008, kudos to women for breaking down the gender gap. Developmental, Clinical, Counseling, Family, and Social Psychology are all dominated by women—guys only make up about 30% or less in those fields. Also, psychology, as a whole, is a fairly young profession, which means this Gandalf stereotype has to go.

 

So where are the men? Unfortunately, the women haven’t broken all the way through the glass ceiling yet. With decreased pay still a major issue for the liberation of women and academia being a less “family-friendly” environment, men still dominate much of the faculty positions within the United States. Sad but true.

 

4) People suffering from mental illness will never recover and live a happy life.

 

This may be putting the myth lightly because some people believe that all mentally ill patients should be put in psychiatric institutions. Individuals believe this, in part, because of what they see on television and in the media, but also because—as I’ve mentioned earlier—not realizing that, for the majority of disorders, they are symptoms, not character flaws, not lack of willpower, but symptoms. And symptoms can be treated.

 

The truth…

 

The majority of mental disorders are not chronic: Depression can be alleviated; alcohol dependence can be overcome; phobias can be dealt with and the anxiety accompanying them will fade to a level that makes daily living a breeze. However, this is not to say that all symptoms will disappear: Schizophrenia must be treated with medication and therapy in an endless cycle; individuals suffering from personality disorders struggle but through therapy can learn to improve their lives. Nevertheless, they can cope. There are support groups, specialized programs, medications, and group and individual therapy programs that people can enlist into in order to aid them in their daily lives. The point: people suffering from mental illness are not in a coma; they have wives/husbands, children, and jobs just like everybody else.  I mean, come on, could you lock Carrie Fisher up in a mental institution? Princess Leia? She suffered from Bipolar Disorder ((Stroff Marano, Hara. "Getting Better vs. Staying Well" Psychology Today. May 21, 2007. http://www.psychologytoday.com/articles/200302/getting-better-vs-staying-well).

 



           

…Yeah, I don’t think so.

 

5) Therapy is laying on a couch and just talking…

 

This is another myth that somehow has been perpetuated through the years, probably due to Freud again; to the general public, he’s the most well known figure because of his controversial subconscious theories on motivation and behavior.

 

The lying on the couch and talking phenomenon is synonymous with psychoanalysis: the patient lays on the couch and free associates—meaning, he or she talks about whatever comes to mind, no matter what the topic. Nowadays, it’s hard to find a therapist that will do such a method.

 

The truth…

 

Clients and therapists have a working relationship: the client doesn’t just talk, but together, the therapist and client develop treatment goals they want to accomplish and steps to get there; also, in the majority, if not in all forms of therapy, there involves homework the therapist assigns the client outside of session together. The theory behind this: the therapist only sees the client one hour a week; the other 167 hours out of the week are outside the therapy room. But the most important concept the general public should learn is that therapy is now tailored for specific problems—that is, certain therapies aid individuals better than others, depending on the psychological problem one is experiencing. Cognitive-behavioral therapy does well at treating anxiety and depression; Dialectical-behavior therapy excels at treating Borderline Personality Disorder; and Exposure therapies do wonders for individuals who have experienced traumatic events (Kliem, S., Kröger, C. & Kossfelder, J. (2010). (2010). Dialectical behavior therapy for borderline personality disorder: A meta-analysis using mixed-effects modeling. Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, 78, 936-951.

 

Driessen E, Hollon SD (September 2010). "Cognitive behavioral therapy for mood disorders: efficacy, moderators and mediators". Psychiatr. Clin. North Am. 33 (3): 537–55

 

Hofmann SG, Smits JAJ (2008). "Cognitive-behavioral therapy for adult anxiety disorders: A meta-analysis of randomized placebo-controlled trials". Journal of Clinical Psychiatry 69 (4): 621–632

 

Eftekhari, A.; Stines, L.R. & Zoellner, L.A. (2006). Do You Need To Talk About It? Prolonged Exposure for the Treatment of Chronic PTSD. The Behavior Analyst Today, 7(1), 70–83).

 


6) Psychologists and Psychiatrists are synonymous

 



 

Whether your interested in going into psychology, working with a mental health provider, or watching reruns of “Frasier” late at night with a bag of potato chips and a bottle of beer, it’s important to know the difference between psychologists and psychiatrists. The myth behind this one is that the general public believes they do roughly the same thing—they don’t, nor do they have similar backgrounds.

 

The truth…

 

Psychologists and Psychiatrists differ on the type and level of education: Psychiatrists receive their medical degree (M.D.) while psychologists receive their Doctor of Philosophy degree (Ph.D.) or Doctor of Psychology degree (Psy.D.) Oddly enough, the length of schooling between the M.D. and the Doctorate degrees are not much different. For medical students, you go through four years of medical school, a one year internship, and usually three years of residency before you’re a certified M.D. As for psychologists, doctoral programs take at least five to seven years to complete and that doesn’t include a post-doctoral fellowship and obtaining licensure. Psychologists are mainly trained in the assessment, treatment, and therapeutic techniques for psychological disorders, while Psychiatrists receive similar training but focus on it from a medical perspective such as understanding what medications to prescribe for specific psychological disorders. This leads to the major difference between psychiatrists and psychologists: psychologists can’t prescribe medication. Currently, grants are being proposed to change that in a number of states, but there appears to be stringent requirements to allow psychologists to do so.

 

More references about Stigma: