Rage and Disgust

I have found my way back to Blogger in a somewhat round-about fashion. I should really be studying for my Microbiology test tomorrow, or the Organic Chemistry test the day after, but the bitter taste in my mouth and angry pounding of my pulse at my throat will not let me be.

Long story short- I stumbled across a blog post called the Tisinai Formula by a so-called "hetero-seperatist." In it, the author asserts that the population of homosexual men is comprised of more pedophiles than heterosexual men, and is thus more likely to molest children.

Words cannot express my rage, my disgust, my need to lash out at this bigoted lie. I will not deny that I am biased in this matter- human beings are creatures of emotion and experience, and to remove these things from our perception of the world is quite impossible.

I know plenty of gay men. Some are silly, some are slightly grumpy, some of them are so flamboyant that you can see the leaping flames from miles away. (Get it? Flaming? Ha, I kill myself.) Some of these men are drama queens, some of them are so quiet that you have to really pry to find out whether something is the matter. None of them are so cruel as to intentionally destroy childhood for their own pleasure- sexual, emotional, or otherwise.

I have met straight men who ARE that cruel.
I dated a man who refused to leave me alone even after he left me for another girl. As we sat in court so that he could contest my attempt at a restraining order he railed to the judge that I "needed to get off my high horse." I just wanted to be left alone, to move on, to date someone else.
I also knew a man whose name was Steve. His wife was my mother's friend, his two children played with us, and he had watched my brothers and myself after school once or twice. Steve was an avid video game player, and I remember him literally whipping through level upon level of Castlevania while I watched in awe...

Steve came to our house one day when I was alone. He asked to be let in so that he could wait for my father to return. I was eleven; of course I said yes. I don't remember exactly how it began, but we started flirting. Much like children on the playground we would tug each other's hair or land a (less than) gentle slap, and then run away giggling. At some point Steve removed the chewing gum from his mouth, deliberately tugged on the collar of my shirt, and dropped the gum into my training bra. I remember thinking that something was wrong, but I didn't know what to do about it. Steve reached into my bra to fish the gum out. I can still remember the carpet that I was staring at, but I cannot- for the life of me- picture his face.

I was lucky in that Steve only came for me a few times, and that the human brain is a marvel of self-preservation. Those memories were locked away quicker than I will ever know for certain. I remember sitting at presentations and nodding fervently while adults explained what to do if someone touched us inappropriately. I was still in fifth or sixth grade for those presentations, which means it took less than a year for my psyche to patch its own gaping wounds. Those wounds reopened when I was in my first year of college, hundreds of miles away from my family. In the seven years that passed, my subconscious guilt for letting Steve into the house, and for submitting to him as meekly as I did, had eaten away at my life. I blamed myself for things that were not my fault. I had no self-esteem, and needed constant reinforcement from other people to derive any self-worth. I first tried to kill myself when I was sixteen, and would try again when I was twenty-one. I didn't yet remember what Steve had done to me on a conscious level, but the experience was still poison in my veins that I could not expel by myself.

I am fifteen years removed from that gullible eleven year-old. I am ten years away from my first suicide attempt, and five years past my second. I am married to a sweet, wonderful man who wraps me in his arms when I sit up in the middle of the night screaming. I have so many friends who empathize with me, and who love me when I am at my worst. My major is molecular biology, my minor is in dance. I play flute and piano and my vocal range is soprano, though I am in desperate need of practice with all of these. I play video games with Brian, I own two rescued dogs, I am still a less-than-stellar cook, and I still enjoy manga and anime. I am still learning what it is to not let a traumatic experience define what happens after. It took years of therapy to admit that I am not to blame for what Steve chose to do. Nor is my mother, who had heard rumors about him and ordered him to stay away from her children. My step-father isn't to blame for not being home, and my brothers bear no responsibility either. The blame is Steve's, and his alone. There is something inherently broken in a person who decides to inflict that kind of harm on another human being- male or female, adult or child, gay or straight.

So, back to the beginning of this post- being homosexual does not make a person monstrous. The choice to molest a child is a conscious one, and those who make it are something less than human. How do I convey this difference to the people whose words and comparisons bother me so? How do I explain that my gay friends are gentle and kind and supportive? How do I show that they are the polar opposite of child molesters?

The answer that I am afraid to acknowledge, and the one that leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, is that I can't. I suppose this is another instance where the blame lies solely with another party, and that I am powerless to influence their choice. I cannot change the choice that another person has made, but I CAN make my own choice. I can choose to try to be a good person, despite all the frustration and despair that I encounter in this world. I can try to embody the traits that I want others to practice. I can love my husband and my friends, care for my family, work to succeed in school, and remember the painful lessons I've been forced to learn. I think this is what a lot of choices have boiled down to.

In closing, Mr. Heteroseparatist- I hope that you read this. I hope that my words strike a chord for you, and that you come to understand why I find your words hurtful and inaccurate. But, if you don't come to see things from my point of view, if you don't change your mind, then that is not my fault, and it does not make me less adequate.

Oy vey.

I really need to work on posting more often. I think I would be less of a rage machine if I let what's currently IN my head OUT. This, I shall do!

Tonight, though, I'm indulging in an almost guilty pleasure. I'm listening to this fantastic Latin choir/instrumental track from... of all things... Disney's Hunchback of Notre Dame. Listen with me!!! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8axNKiFETrk&feature=related

I had a love/hate relationship with this movie when I was younger. Like so many, I grew up in the generation where Disney was basically God, and everything they did was pretty frickin' sweet. I also loved the character of Esmeralda. What was this, 1998? I was turning from a little girl into a teenager. I was becoming more independent and headstrong, and entirely too vocal about what I disagreed with. What's not to love about the character who's a grown and actualized woman? She's morally upright, kind and accepting, street smart, and drop-dead gorgeous in that animated-by-Disney way. Add the subliminal elements of her being in touch with and confident in her sexuality (seriously, watch her writhe on Frollo's lap and tell me that any other guy wouldn't breathe a little harder), and you've got an idol for any burgeoning teen. I even dressed as Esmeralda for Halloween that year. ^^;

Then I realized that I was too old for Disney movies. And so I began to deny the fact that I still found them awesome, along with so many other delicious bits of my childhood. Another decade and some maturing later, I'm grown enough to admit that I'm still a sucker for Disney. Especially, I'm realizing, for this movie.

It helps that the Nostalgia Critic* pointed it out, but Hunchback is a really, REALLY dark film to come from the Happiest Place on Earth. It touches on racism, murder, sexuality, REPRESSED sexuality, corrupt politics, and the violent collision between secular and sacred culture that rages to this day! Darth- err, Pope Benedict freaked out about James Cameron's Avatar because it was about Pagan culture, Nature Worship, and rebelling against the system. And there were blue alien boobies. Those have been a problem lately.**

Isn't it a really deep moment, though, when the movie's bad guy laments his attraction to a lowly gypsy, and the fact that his virtue doesn't mean enough for him to let her go? Or when the man who was trapped inside his entire life realizes that the one person who claimed to love him the whole time is a person who is INCAPABLE of real love? The fact that Quasimodo doesn't interfere with Esmeralda and Phoebus in their flirtation, even if it means his massive crush will forever remain unrequited? When a pretty girl decides she'd rather be WRONGFULLY EXECUTED than give her body to the corrupt old man who's threatening her? This stuff could be in a Lifetime movie, it is that depressing!

Let's not forget the art- from a traditional standpoint, it's very pretty. The Disney artists did a darn good job of representing Notre Dame itself, which is regarded as a pinnacle of gorgeous architecture. And the music! ~sigh~ Call me biased, but Latin is an amazing language, and it translates into song so beautifully. Plus there's the instrumentation and the chords the composer, Alan Menkin, decided on. For example- The scene where Frollo tries to burn Esmeralda as a witch. The notes themselves are discordant, almost like they're lamenting the character's fate. The tempo's slow and has a very organized march feel to it, and then more discord as Frollo offers her one last chance to give in to his advances. She rejects, and the choirs' voices swell with the flames that engulf her. The tempo and volume both pick up, and you can hear the driving timpani under everything, imitating the pounding of the hero's heart as he swoops down and pulls her loose. Then, soaring resolution as the choir supports Quasimodo's claims of "Sanctuary!"

Call me a sucker, but this is what I call BAD ASS. It's beautiful music in and of itself, but what makes it really awesome for me is that it's part of the story-telling! This is the part of the movie where (if you're like me) your arms erupt into goosebumps. That feeling is worth any amount of heckling. So, yeah, I really, really like 80-90s era Disney. (Not High School Musical Disney, because that's a whole other can of beans.)

I also like Sailor Moon, the princess from Voltron is pretty, and the original Power Rangers were the fucking bomb. These are a few of my favorite things.



*The Nostalgia Critic can be found at thatguywiththeglasses.com, and, in my opinion, rips some of our childhood favorites a well-deserved new one. Seriously, did you ever WATCH Captain Planet? Maybe you've forgotten how awful it was, but the Nostalgia Critic remembers.

**The blue alien boob joke is a reference to a shit-storm that arose a few years ago related to a game called Mass Effect. It's a fun game set in kind of a choose-your-own-space-adventure scenario, with one of the possible outcomes of your character's choices being a brief, not-at-all pornographic love scene with a hot blue alien. Double points if the player character is female. Needless to say, the conservative demographic, the video-game-hater demographic, and a few other whiners went positively CRAZY and blew the entire thing way out of proportion. Claims were made that the game would turn kids into xenophiles, promote lesbian unions, cause bestiality and public masturbation, etc. After a few embarrassed apologies by professionals who had testified before they even saw the game, most of society just shrugged and moved on.

A Midsummer Night's Hallucination

Ugh. Insomnia...

I once promised an ode to Prince of Persia in iambic pentameter. Well, forgive the wait, but iambic pentameter can be a bitch. I have an entirely new respect for Shakespeare.

Dagger in my hand? Nay! Dagger buried
in the heart of my belov'd! Brave and just
mine own transgressions are what did end her.
Would that I had not touch'd this loathsome blade!
Rather, I wish it remain'd in India
Within dusty ruins guarded by spell
That one bold princess might once more open
Her two dark and lust'rous eyes unto me!

That was the first time I've written anything in iambic pentameter. Your thoughts?

Progress.

So, I've actually kind of hated living in Cheyenne. I mean, yeah, it's worth it to get Brian through school. But I had to switch jobs, so I'm not dealing with the assholes I'm used to any more. I get an entirely new set of assholes to learn about!
It's a bigger city, so I can go shopping... Until about 6 p.m., because businesses in Cheyenne apparently have better things to do than stay open and SELL STUFF!
Everybody here drives, parks, and even walks like an idiot. They're not being aggressive, they just don't notice the little lines that you shouldn't cross over, and they don't know that red means stop.
There are people with cigarettes and chewing tobacco EVERYWHERE. I guess it's to be expected, but it still really bothers me that I can't walk through the Wally World parking lot to get to work without coughing up a lung.
Also, all my friends are still in Laramie. Yeah, I know one or two people here, but that's not really enough.

But we are making progress! Brian is kicking butt and taking names in school. I am so very proud of that man. =)
I have been working on starting a Go Club at a neat local cafe. It's still very small ~cough~Just me!~cough~ but I'm putting up more ads around town.
And now I've met a Shakespeare group! Apparently, they've been having trouble finding enough cast members for the ever-popular Midsummer Night's Dream. So when a group member dropped off a script she asked me if I wanted to be Hippolyta. Queen of the Amazons? Hells, yes! I've missed theatre, since my most recent activity in it was the class I took in Fall of '06, so I'm jumping at this opportunity! Mayhap I will finally expand my wee circle of friends!

Egads! I just got weirder!

I have added yet another quirk to my laundry list of oddities. Now that I work as an optician, I have an eye-wear fetish.

I happened upon this revelation when I stumbled onto this picture-

Zachary Quinto plays Spock in the new Star Trek movie, and Sylar on Heroes. He is pictured to the right in big honkin' glasses. Nice big zyl frames, and, if I had to guess the prescription, I would say he's either plano or just a little near-sighted. And, the more I stare at those glasses, the more I think myopia makes me hawt. Oooh, talk astigmatism to me, baby. Yeah, just like that...

On a less disturbing note, check out his eyebrows. For the role of Spock, about three-quarters of ZQ's brows were sacrificed to the razor god. You can kind of see how slender they are behind the glasses. Clever disguise, no?

Blasphemy!

Erin has a confession to make-

She had a double standard for a little bit. I try not to let a bad experience bias me against something or someone, and I criticize others for doing it, but I let it happen.

Y'see, a few years ago, I dated this... person/creature/carbon-based THING. His name started with a "C," ended in a "d," and had "ha" in the middle. This... dating, I suppose you could call it, ended on a sour note when he replaced me with something that had smaller tits than his own, and could barely be identified as female. (Yes, I'm still bitter. Shut up.) The relationship was troubled, to say the least, even before it ended. There was lots of drinking, infidelity, verbal abuse, and crying, with his stalking for the next couple years to wash the whole thing down. This is what I qualify as a bad experience.

It's also my only experience with Star Trek up to this point.

This guy was an old school Trekkie. The way he described it was what first caught my attention. He confessed his obsession, I wounded him with my Olympic-gold-medal eyeroll, and he defended his adoration for the series. In the future, the aliens we may meet, and the race we may become, will still be... human, for lack of a better word. It's about the bar fights and the warm fuzzy group hugs, the epic screw-ups and the landslide victories, and everything in between.

So, I relented. I grew especially fond of the movie Undiscovered Country, The Next Generation (Patrick Stewart and Brent Spiner are fantastic actors!) and Voyager. (Yes, it's pretty much the match.com of the Star Trek franchise. I liked the captain. And #7. Bite me.) Needless to say, once the relationship was over I wanted nothing to do with Star Trek. Star Trek was associated with the worst of all evils, in my mind. And yet, I couldn't help but think of those moments that made me laugh or even smile just a tiny bit. I had been changed- whether or not the person who'd done the changing was a bastard was irrelevent.

Point of the ramble-
Two years later, I watch the Star Trek movie, and I come to a long overdue conclusion- I am really fond of this idea. I'm really fond of all these world's I've been to and the people I've met. Just as I won't let a bad memory keep me from moving forward, I won't let a bad experience keep me from enjoying something. So, this is me admitting it-

I like Star Trek. I've liked it for a few years now.
Still hate Chad.
But I really like Star Trek.

Bomb nom nom!

So, I just want to start off by saying FUCK FLOOR-MASTERS! FUCK THEM ALL TO HELL! ... Okay, I feel better now.

For those of you who didn't pick up on that thinly veiled reference, I've been playing a lot of Zelda lately. I replayed Twilight Princess in record time, restarted Ocarina of Time, and then acquired Windwaker. Once you get past the cel shading, Windwaker is actually a really great game. Several of the game play elements are pretty different from other installments- like being able to steal from enemies, or control secondary characters- but the puzzles are ingenious and the boss fights are a blast. Also, there are statues with gaping mouths that you throw bombs into! Open wide, beeyotch!

I also have a new job! I now work in the Wal-mart Vision Center! I bet some of you are thinking, "Oooh! Whoopdee doo!" Really, though, the Vision Center is so much more satisfying, and less stressful by far than the service desk. It also offers the opportunity to take the certification exam to become a licensed optician. Opticians are kind of like dental assistants- they get things ready for the doctor. Opticians run lab equipment and perform several tests for patients, order and adjust eyeglasses, and do repairs. I get to wear professional dress instead of my worn-to-pieces khakis and polos. I also got hooked up with glasses and contacts, so Brian doesn't have to read road signs for me any longer. It makes me feel smart when I can explain the benefits of polycarbonate lenses as opposed to high index. I know the second leading cause of blindness in our country and what triggers the condition. I can straighten frames and insert lenses, replace nose pads, and extricate broken screws.

Oh, and I went through the training course (complete with three-inch workbook and online comprehension tests) and all my on-the-job training in sixteen days. Woot for me!

Last, but not least, Watchmen was AMAZING. That was the best transition of any novel or comic to a movie that I have ever seen. All hail Zack Snyder and his respect for source material! All hail some of the most amazing actors in the verse! And, to cheapen the moment, all hail thigh-high black boots!