I never really believed in a culture divide in the United States. Red states versus blue states never really made much sense to me because at the end of the day every state was still an American state. But as of last year, I have noticed a divide which has led me to believe that there was a culture war and it's already been won.
The culmination of this revelation came when I had a conversation with an associate of mine today. When I mentioned that I went to a hockey game over the weekend, she stared at me with a look of disgust and said "Really? Hockey? That's such a hick sport."
Hockey, for those of you who don't know, is considered to be the third most popular sport in the United States, under football and baseball and slightly edging out basketball. It has a long and storied history, much like every other major sport, and has produced some of the finest athletes in the world. To hear the sport dismissed as a game that only hilljacks played was astounding. This wasn't NASCAR, for God's sake, this was a legitimate sport!
And that's when I realized what's happened to America. A schism has occured in America, based off of socioeconomics and geography. It seems that if a person speaks with an accent of Southern or Western origin, they are dismissed as less intelligent. Television programming and movies are increasingly showing small town America as a quaint backwards style of living instead of the standard. The blue collar lifestyle has become synonymous with Larry the Cable Guy and "trailer trash".
However, not only is blue collar living being snubbed, it seems as if the middle class is starting to get the same treatment. Some of the things I've seen and heard has astounded me. Hockey is apperantly a hick sport. Commercials depict pickup truck drivers as people who either like driving cars through exploding buildings or cheated their way through high school. Alaska is no longer really part of America but Hawaii still is. And don't even get me started on the idea that playing in the Midwest somehow affects your marketability as an athlete in the age of globalization.
So what is there to do? Do those of us whose interests are being written off as stupid or hickish just ignore the abuse? Do we scuttle to public pressure and start pretending to care whether there should be a playoff system in college football? Or do we just say to hell with the snobs that have siezed control of our culture and hope that global warming covers the world with a sheet of ice so that the only sport that can be played is hockey?
Monday, January 12, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
The Passive-Aggressive Fury of a Feline
Cats are relatively simple creatures. They eat, they sleep and they demand attention from anything they come across. That's basically all cats do. Some claim this is because they lack the mental capacity to do more than eat, sleep and chase things. Others claim they simply choose not to do anything else because they are aloof and haughty creatures. I personally fall in the latter camp because I've seen what cats can do. In my opinion, cats let us live because we're a bunch of saps who give them food and shower them with attention. In my humble opinion, anyone who think cats lack the mental capacity to do anything should be grateful that a cat hasn't stabbed them in their sleep and left their body in a shallow unmarked grave. I know for a fact that cats have plenty of mental capacity to do lots of things, such as get pissed off and hold grudges. And that's precisely what I did last night: piss off my cat.
I walked into my apartment last night around 8 PM and hurriedly dumped the laptop I was in the midst of fixing on the couch. I was hungry, tired and my feet hurt. I've been busy all week and have had little time for anything, including my cat. As I rushed around the apartment scrounging up food, I saw my recliner slowly turn to face me. In it was my cat. Now I don't know how she managed to move the chair. She's eight pounds on a fat day and she lacks legs long enough to reach the floor. But I swear to you that chair turned to face me and sitting in it was my cat, looking like she was about to kill something (and by something I mean me).
Unfortunately, despite the uneasy feeling in my gut, I simply had to finish up the laptop. So I ignored my cat for the better part of an hour, pretending like I didn't notice her staring. Finally, Moochie got fed up. She leaped up onto the coffee table, walked onto the keyboard and stepped on the power button, shutting it off and wiping out the last half hour of my work. Moochie had punished me for my negligence.
However, now that the slumbering beast had awoken, Moochie decided to drive the point home. As I groaned about my lost progress, she hopped up onto my lap and dug her claws right into my nether regions. That's right, my cat attempted to castrate me. She missed, thank Chluthu, but she attempted it all the same.
After she tried to rob the world of future Hoffers, Moochie stayed out of sight for the rest of the evening. She wasn't finished, however. That night, come bedtime, Moochie plopped her petite frame in the geometric center of the bed and sprawled out. When I tried to lay down, I found that she somehow relegated me to 1/3 of the bed. When I tried to move her, she simply dug all four sets of her claws into the mattress, daring me to try to move her and see what sort of damage she could inflict on my bedspread. Not having the funds to want to see her destroy my blankets and my balls temporarily out of commission from the injuries sustained earlier, I just took the small portion of the bed and gently petted her until I finally fell asleep in an uncomfortable position.
Now you may be thinking that I'm simply projecting or personifying my frustrations onto the cat. And you might be right. Maybe an animal with the brain the size of a tangerine can't get upset or lash out or unleash all of her female passive agresssiveness onto her owner. Maybe my weary sleep deprived mind is seeing things. But when I woke up and saw Moochie calmly sitting on top of the laptop the next morning as if to remind me of who exactly was the boss, I'm convinced that tiny terror is smarter than she looks.
I walked into my apartment last night around 8 PM and hurriedly dumped the laptop I was in the midst of fixing on the couch. I was hungry, tired and my feet hurt. I've been busy all week and have had little time for anything, including my cat. As I rushed around the apartment scrounging up food, I saw my recliner slowly turn to face me. In it was my cat. Now I don't know how she managed to move the chair. She's eight pounds on a fat day and she lacks legs long enough to reach the floor. But I swear to you that chair turned to face me and sitting in it was my cat, looking like she was about to kill something (and by something I mean me).
Unfortunately, despite the uneasy feeling in my gut, I simply had to finish up the laptop. So I ignored my cat for the better part of an hour, pretending like I didn't notice her staring. Finally, Moochie got fed up. She leaped up onto the coffee table, walked onto the keyboard and stepped on the power button, shutting it off and wiping out the last half hour of my work. Moochie had punished me for my negligence.
However, now that the slumbering beast had awoken, Moochie decided to drive the point home. As I groaned about my lost progress, she hopped up onto my lap and dug her claws right into my nether regions. That's right, my cat attempted to castrate me. She missed, thank Chluthu, but she attempted it all the same.
After she tried to rob the world of future Hoffers, Moochie stayed out of sight for the rest of the evening. She wasn't finished, however. That night, come bedtime, Moochie plopped her petite frame in the geometric center of the bed and sprawled out. When I tried to lay down, I found that she somehow relegated me to 1/3 of the bed. When I tried to move her, she simply dug all four sets of her claws into the mattress, daring me to try to move her and see what sort of damage she could inflict on my bedspread. Not having the funds to want to see her destroy my blankets and my balls temporarily out of commission from the injuries sustained earlier, I just took the small portion of the bed and gently petted her until I finally fell asleep in an uncomfortable position.
Now you may be thinking that I'm simply projecting or personifying my frustrations onto the cat. And you might be right. Maybe an animal with the brain the size of a tangerine can't get upset or lash out or unleash all of her female passive agresssiveness onto her owner. Maybe my weary sleep deprived mind is seeing things. But when I woke up and saw Moochie calmly sitting on top of the laptop the next morning as if to remind me of who exactly was the boss, I'm convinced that tiny terror is smarter than she looks.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Waking Up in an Unfamiliar Place
I believe in being proud of the little accomplishments in life. Small accomplishments, such as thinking of that hilarious one-liner or finishing the daily crossword in record time, get me through the day and allow me a silver lining that allows me to look at the world in a positive night. One of these small accomplishments was that I always remembered where I fell asleep. Now this may seem like a petty insignificant accompishment, but think of it like this: I never got so inebriated or exhausted that I simply blacked out and couldn't remember how I made it home the next day. This was a point of pride that I maintained through my stressful high school years and my "wild" college years through last night. So imagine my horror when I woke up at 4:37 AM in the hallway outside of my apartment.
Now, I remember specifically falling asleep in my bed last night. I put on my pajamas, turned off the lights and fell asleep with my hand on my cat like I've done almost every night for the last year. So when I woke up in the middle of the night wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, mismatched socks and my dress shoes, I was mildly surprised. The first thing I did was get my bearings. I was about ten feet away from my apartment door. I was not bleeding, in unusual pain or missing any vital organs. I also was carrying seventy three cents in change and my apartment keys.
As I slowly got up and figured out what happened, I walked to my door and checked to see if it was locked. It was, meaning that I had somehow picked the right key on my keychain and successfully turned my very tempermental lock. When I walked into my apartment, nothing seemed out of place or missing. Moochie was patiently waiting at the door and I had left my wallet on the coffee table.
Now, here's where it gets disturbing. When I checked my wallet, I realized I had taken out two dollars out. Judging from the odd change in my pocket, I apperantly bought something for $1.27. What this was, I don't know, due to the lack of a wrapper, can or bottle in my apartment or the hallway.
So by my own estimate, my unconsious self, being unhappy with its lot in life, got myself up and dressed, walked out of the apartment and down to the store (the nearest one being three blocks away) and bought something and then came back and decided to chill in the hallway after disposing of said item in an unknown location. I don't know what disturbs me more, the fact that I did all this or the fact that a cashier actually took my money and rang me out.
Addendum: I haven't had a sip of alcohol in over a week, or taken any medication besides Advil in over a month. This was done by a sober, albeit demented subconsious.
Now, I remember specifically falling asleep in my bed last night. I put on my pajamas, turned off the lights and fell asleep with my hand on my cat like I've done almost every night for the last year. So when I woke up in the middle of the night wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, mismatched socks and my dress shoes, I was mildly surprised. The first thing I did was get my bearings. I was about ten feet away from my apartment door. I was not bleeding, in unusual pain or missing any vital organs. I also was carrying seventy three cents in change and my apartment keys.
As I slowly got up and figured out what happened, I walked to my door and checked to see if it was locked. It was, meaning that I had somehow picked the right key on my keychain and successfully turned my very tempermental lock. When I walked into my apartment, nothing seemed out of place or missing. Moochie was patiently waiting at the door and I had left my wallet on the coffee table.
Now, here's where it gets disturbing. When I checked my wallet, I realized I had taken out two dollars out. Judging from the odd change in my pocket, I apperantly bought something for $1.27. What this was, I don't know, due to the lack of a wrapper, can or bottle in my apartment or the hallway.
So by my own estimate, my unconsious self, being unhappy with its lot in life, got myself up and dressed, walked out of the apartment and down to the store (the nearest one being three blocks away) and bought something and then came back and decided to chill in the hallway after disposing of said item in an unknown location. I don't know what disturbs me more, the fact that I did all this or the fact that a cashier actually took my money and rang me out.
Addendum: I haven't had a sip of alcohol in over a week, or taken any medication besides Advil in over a month. This was done by a sober, albeit demented subconsious.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
Love: It's Finger Lickin' Good
The Greeks believed in three types of love: eros, agape, and philia. Philia is the unconditional love that families share. We don't have much of a choice when it comes to philia, that's why it's unconditional. Agape is friendly love, the love that we have for our friends. Agape is totally voluntary and can be doled out in whatever quantities we like. Eros is the bwah-chicka-bwah bwah love. It's the sort of love that involves hormones and keeps the adult industry afloat in turbulent economic times.
However, true love, the mushy sort that's idealized in girly flicks and Nicholas Sparks novels, is none of these sorts of love. People don't get weak kneed about the love shared over Thanksgiving dinner or pine for male bonding time. When we idealize true love, we seperate it from the other types of loves present in our everyday life. What is often overlooked is that true romantic love is simply a combination of agape, philia, and eros. Romantic love combines the unconditionality of philia, the warm and fuzzy feelings of agape, and the hormonally fuelled drive of eros. Romantic love is simply all three loves mixed together in a unique way to make something new. Think of it like the secret spices at KFC. Everyone who knows anything about fried chicken knows what the secret spices are. It's not like Colonel Sanders discovered a new spice and has been secretly mining it in the Appalachian Mountains ever since. It's the blend that's unique. After all, no one can replicate the artery-clogging goodness of KFC. Romantic love is kind of like that.
Now I don't pretend to know a lot about love. My experiences with it have been fleeting, and I'm convinced that I might have some sort of allergy to romantic situations based on the amount of word vomit, nausea, and cold sweating they induce. What I do know is that love is something powerful and awesome. Anything that can so convincingly override our survival instincts and selfish impulses has to be a good thing. And what could be stronger than a spicy mix of the love of family, the bonds of friendships and the stuff that makes us want to do the horizontal mamba? So just remember that when you see that dreamy Keanu Reeves in one of his heartjerking romantic movies (sigh...The Matrix), the emotion he's displaying is not just one love, but three.
However, true love, the mushy sort that's idealized in girly flicks and Nicholas Sparks novels, is none of these sorts of love. People don't get weak kneed about the love shared over Thanksgiving dinner or pine for male bonding time. When we idealize true love, we seperate it from the other types of loves present in our everyday life. What is often overlooked is that true romantic love is simply a combination of agape, philia, and eros. Romantic love combines the unconditionality of philia, the warm and fuzzy feelings of agape, and the hormonally fuelled drive of eros. Romantic love is simply all three loves mixed together in a unique way to make something new. Think of it like the secret spices at KFC. Everyone who knows anything about fried chicken knows what the secret spices are. It's not like Colonel Sanders discovered a new spice and has been secretly mining it in the Appalachian Mountains ever since. It's the blend that's unique. After all, no one can replicate the artery-clogging goodness of KFC. Romantic love is kind of like that.
Now I don't pretend to know a lot about love. My experiences with it have been fleeting, and I'm convinced that I might have some sort of allergy to romantic situations based on the amount of word vomit, nausea, and cold sweating they induce. What I do know is that love is something powerful and awesome. Anything that can so convincingly override our survival instincts and selfish impulses has to be a good thing. And what could be stronger than a spicy mix of the love of family, the bonds of friendships and the stuff that makes us want to do the horizontal mamba? So just remember that when you see that dreamy Keanu Reeves in one of his heartjerking romantic movies (sigh...The Matrix), the emotion he's displaying is not just one love, but three.
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