Tagged: Blogging
Would Freud Have Laughed? An Apology
I have to think he would have at least smirked. But from what I remember being taught about him, he was a very serious, very serious man. So no. Even jokes that I am only able to attempt after his research and ideas have had a century to take root in western society wouldn’t have caused him to laugh.
I love blogging. I love it because it forces interesting questions, questions like this one about Freud, into my head. You see, life is so very easy for a smart, not to mention good-looking, eligible man like me that I need some way to make it challenging. So I write. I try to see if I can make a total stranger laugh in the same way that I can make someone laugh that I’m talking to in person. And here’s the real challenge. I try to see if I can make them laugh for the same reason.
By the way. Please send me a check for, I don’t know, $300, each month from now on to support my quest. Make it payable to Pete Deakon and mail it to PO Box 3392, Parker, CO 80134. Thank you.
A man like me doesn’t just appear. It takes a very special woman years and years, like 18, to mold a boy-child into a man like me. This woman wouldn’t have been afraid to punctuate the training with a wooden spoon if necessary.
One more thing. This woman, the mother of a man like me, a man who shed the constraining shackles of fear long ago, a man who publicly bears his soul in ways that make her shake her head in disappointment, this woman has no problem walking out of a movie. Not that she’d even let herself be taken to a movie of Fifty Shades‘ caliber. Even by her son.
I’m sorry folks. I want this blog to be a place you can come for truth and laughs. I failed yesterday. The opening of yesterday’s post, the truth I sought to share, was it is really funny to think of an adult man and his mom watching Fifty Shades together. I didn’t take her. She hasn’t seen the movie. We don’t live in the same town. The parenthetical apology was an “I’m sorry for picking on you again, mom.” Not that I’ll ever stop.
But picking on her doesn’t mean I don’t love her. I do. She’s my mom. I just am compelled to avenge myself every once in a while.
****
By the way, she finally added to yesterday’s discussion. And on a separate note, Glenn’s review of my new book is up. Buried Within – Isn’t As Gay As I hoped
Review of Fifty Shades of Grey, by Sam Taylor-Johnson (Based on the Book)
Did you know this movie was going to have sex scenes? I had no idea. Neither did my mom. I’ll leave the awkwardness of our watching it together to your imagination. (Sorry, Ma. I had to.)
What pisses me off about this movie and book is that they leave me speechless. I thought I knew.
I thought I knew. Really, if you think you know the story based on overhearing things, you don’t. And you don’t want to know the story. It’s past ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous. It’s stupendous in its ridiculousness. A friend loves the books. And she’s cool, so I can’t go the one further step that I want to and say people who enjoyed the book are ridiculous too. To each his own. But I can safely say that she’s in the same category as Chris Rock’s women who listen to degrading rap and say, “He ain’t talkin’ ’bout me.”
I had to watch the movie because it’s based on a book that sold 100 million copies. I was a fool. At least I didn’t pay for it.
Did anyone else laugh uncontrollably when Christian tells Anastasia, “If you were mine, you wouldn’t be able to sit for a week”? My laughter wasn’t at the movie, but at me. At first I thought that he meant she wouldn’t be able to sit because he had spanked her so hard with some “playroom” device. Then I realized, nope, he meant…
Have I ever mentioned I’m an Eagle Scout?
Does anyone else find it funny that a female author’s written-for-women fantasy involves a man making sex so good that the woman needs a week to recover? I’ve always thought the goal was making sex so good that the woman wouldn’t want to stop for a week. Lesson learned I guess.
The trouble with this whole Fifty Shades phenomenon is that we let it frame the discussion. It seems to force the questions, “Is BDSM really a secret fantasy for all these women?” and if so “Why is it a fantasy?” moreover “Is it right or wrong?” And also, “Do women want to change men?” and “Why do women want to change men?”
The truth, in and of itself always sobering, is we don’t have to allow E.L. James to frame the discussion. She is not a dominant. We are not submissives.
I wanted to watch this movie because I thought it would give me some pointers about what book buying audiences want to read, as my books aren’t selling. What I really learned is that I will never be able to read audience’s minds. My next book (after the illustrated children’s book that is coming soon) will be more of an escape than my first two. It will have more violence and the violence will be more graphic. It will have more sex and the sex will be more graphic. It’ll be that way because I can see now that people like to read that and it will be fun to write it. But it will be my kind of violence and my kind of sex. Not yours.
Oh. Back to the review. Don’t watch the movie. Or do. Whatever.
Congratulations, You’re Finally A Man. Now What?
Yes, ladies, I’m talking to you. You did it! And I couldn’t be prouder. Not that I ever doubted you.
But here’s my question: What would I have to do if I wanted to become a woman? Don’t laugh. I’m serious. I want to know.
I don’t mean that I want to go under the knife for this change. You didn’t have to for yours, so why should I? What would I have to do?
I’m no good at small talk, so let’s get to the point. I don’t actually want to be a woman. Not because I see anything wrong with it, but because I love being a man. Love it. I get to be stronger than you. I got to fight a war. (Well, if put under our days’ heavy scrutiny on claims of valor, it is more accurate to say I got to “participate in combat operations where our aircraft (rental) was fired upon (small arms) only a (singular) handful of times–if that (it was dark)”.) I get to be taller and heavier than you. What else? In 2015, what else do I get to love about being a man? Oh, here’s one. *Don’t shoot me* but manual labor-wise, I can out work you.
Humph. Now that I’m attempting to write this clever post, I’m struggling. Everything I love about being a man involves physicality, which seems to have been used in times past to protect, to guard, to keep safe. But what needs protecting, guarding, or keeping safe if you women are now men in every way save size and strength? All along, I thought women were what needed this protection. But now that you all are men, I’m confused. Maybe the mistake was mine. Maybe men never were protecting women. What were they protecting then? Seems like weakness is what some would answer, men were protecting the weaker members of society. Maybe some men were, but not me. I never wanted to protect weakness. I wanted to protect rightness. Keeping weakness alive and safe is counter-intuitive. What were men protecting?
Were men protecting strength? Like a Batman “[You have to] Endure, Master Wayne,” kind of strength? Were men protecting forgiveness? Were they protecting decency? Were men protecting grace? How about love? Were men protecting love? Would love exist if there were no women? Seems like making love would be tougher without women. I wonder if they were protecting life itself, in protecting women. Is that possible? And don’t tell me that you women haven’t become like men in this regard, either. I see you. I hear you. You don’t want to make babies, just like men can’t make babies. Have you thought that one through, though? Really thought it through?
Look. Like most men, I’m no saint. Read my book and you’ll see. I messed up. But that doesn’t mean I’m dumb. I get it. You’re scared. But I’d suggest joining me in striving to be better, rather than overcoming your fear by changing into what you dread (second Dark Knight mention if you’re keeping track George). You did it. You proved you could become one of us. But now it’s time to put the costume up (third). It’s time to show me what it means to be a woman–only you can do that.
Ladies, don’t be a man. Be a better woman.
About That Romance Novel
…a rare display of perfect white teeth two widening, full lips revealed said friend.
Beginning with her rugged and worn-in desert tan combat boots, continuing up dusty cargo pants that seemed tailored, pausing where a thick belt sloped pertly from her left hip to her right where the pistol’s holster hung several inches below her waistline, tightening with her damp tank top that left no doubt about her taught stomach and full breasts, and ending with her coal black hair that she tied back in a pony tail three days earlier, she was a fighter through and through.
I stepped forward and her shooting arm flinched. Slowing my approach, I kept her in the long shadow that was the result of the setting sun meeting my tall frame. Raising the open palms of my capable hands to the level of my stomach, I signaled that I meant no harm. She let me continue. Two steps remained and finally she began to rotate the pistol to an angle that would cause my intentions great consternation. Still I walked forward. One final breath of harsh, dust-filled wind before the evening’s calm would begin caused us both to turn our heads downwind, eyes closed. Quick to re-open mine, I saw through her sun-glasses that she hadn’t yet opened hers and that when she did they widened as much from fear as from excitement upon the discovery that I had smartly seized the opportunity to close the remaining distance between us. My shadow blanketed her body in its entirety now. I raised my hands further until they were at shoulder height, which was also the level of her eyes. She tried to hold her breath in an effort to prevent her quickening heart rate from revealing itself through a rapidly rising and falling bosom. She failed. Almost imperceptibly, I advanced my hands until my fingertips landed gently upon her sun-glass’s frames. I then slowly pulled the glasses, and a few strands of hair that appeared relieved to be free, forward.
The Crumby Face
“Type daddy, type!” H- said.
The pair was finishing up breakfast. That is to say he was finished and had moved on to the laptop and she was diligently using her fork’s four tips to scrape up every last bit of cinnamon roll frosting from his plate, having already completed the chore on hers.
He looked towards her, tapped his skull, and smiled as he said, “I’m thinking of ideas.”
“I’m going to count in my head,” she responded naturally.
“Nice, H-. Do that,” he said, returning to the laptop.
A moment passed before she announced, “Daddy, I’m thinking of ideas,” and in doing so chased away one of his.
He turned.
“Oh yeah?”
He wanted to get frustrated, but a dab of icing and an abnormally large chunk of the roll prevented any emotion from surfacing save head-shaking disbelief.
She hadn’t spilled in ages. She used adult size silverware. She dressed herself, sometimes even expressing gratitude when seeing that what he laid out for her matched. She could lift the piano key lid and make her own music for thirty seconds at a time before tiring. And despite answering, “The dragon talks?” when asked how she liked her dad’s Smaug-turned-Bane stylings, she could even call out sight words as she struggled to get comfortable atop him at bedtime.
But when it came to actually fitting food in her mouth, the battle was lost.
He began a careful examination of the data with high hopes of determining she wasn’t at fault. As she returned his stare, shadows shed light on the explanation. He swung round for a profile view. She matched him.
“Hold still H-,” he excitedly requested. Then he happily declared, “Yep, that’s the problem.”
I mean, could you keep food off of your cheeks if they stuck out farther than your lips?
Some Conclusions For Today
Life is a journey, that’s for sure. It’s cliché to even repeat the assertion. Of late, though, it is proving itself more true than I ever would have believed.
A few months ago, December, I wrote about my search for a church home. For various reasons, the posts received decent traction. I began by reviewing the local mega church. And concluded by reviewing the church I felt was for me.
Along the way, I’ve had many conversations with individuals to include a couple pastors. A picture of the situation is beginning to appear. I think bullets will be most effective here now.
- The church I grew up in from 3rd grade to 12th grade combined with my personality did such a number on me that fifteen years later I still can’t tell which way is up.
- Attending church nearly every Sunday and many Wednesdays as a child was by no means the normal experience of an American child.
- Church membership/regular attendance in America is decreasing.
- Mega churches make it seem like church membership is on the up and up, but their growth is simply the result of small church members leaving their small church in favor of the big ones.
- According to one pastor, young folk (20-30s) surprisingly report that they desire more of the sacred, and not the many attempts to cater to them through contemporary worship.
- Even white preachers confess that the black model may be the way of the future regarding preaching.
- I like the black model of preaching.
- Mormonism is batshit crazy.
- Mormonism is batshit crazy.
- The historical record seems to support that a group of humans called themselves Jews and believed and worshiped one God. According to their literature, their purpose as this singular God’s “chosen people” was to display God’s essence to the rest of the world. Out of this group came Jesus. He claimed, not unlike many other prophets of his day, that his people had dropped the ball regarding this charge, but no worries, he’s got it. He further claimed–albeit cryptically at times–that his ministry was God’s way of manifesting a new era on the planet where anyone could become a member of the chosen people of God and fulfill God’s purpose for his people, which is to demonstrate love. Love one another. (Which is, like, totally, like, weird, because, like, we’re all so good at that as is.)
- The historical record does not support Mormonism, whose claims are not marred by things called thousands and thousands of years.
- Every single adult, every one of us that ever has existed on planet Earth is making it up as we go. Don’t miss this point. This is a big one. Previously I was under the belief that there was some level of consensus on things of this nature. But no longer. I have, like many of you, had many one on one conversations with folks regarding this topic and not one person has been the same as another–even if they go to the same church. Notta’ one. Though, put a couple of them together and it’s a different story.
- Telling people what to believe or how to behave is disrespectful, sharing your story is not.
- Children need to learn love; it does not come naturally.
- Organized religion does not seem to be the best way to teach children love, and may be downright incapable of doing it.
No big conclusion.
Follow Me On Twitter
Despite all my family bashing yesterday, I have finally decided to listen to my brother about Twitter. So I have an account now. Follow me @petedeakon if that’s your thing.
(New post tomorrow…apologies for missing today, but I was busy crafting an award winning speech last night. 🙂 )
The Importance of Loss
Back to the good stuff, if I do say so myself.
I don’t take advice on life from my younger brother. Actually, I don’t take it from any immediate family members.
When we discuss life, we mostly just fight. All parties are to blame, of course, but when pitted against my younger brother I’m always ready to accept more blame because I’m older and should know better, the theory goes. Amidst our current unpleasantness I have been thinking about why I never listen to him. This naturally led to me contemplating how I decide to ever listen to anyone. In other words, which criteria do I use to seriously consider another person’s invariably well-meaning advice? As always, I’m curious to read how others would answer this question too.
For me, however, it boils down to loss. The more loss a person has experienced, the more I listen. If a person has experienced less loss than me, then I don’t listen. After all, what do they know?
So mom and dad, brother and sister, I hear you, but your life choices haven’t resulted in much loss according to my all-seeing eye. Sorry. If I’m missing something, please share. At this point, what do you have to lose?
Loss is important to me because it demonstrates risk. Taking risks demonstrates belief, which demonstrates passion, which, in turn, demonstrates that you are alive. At least this is how I see things. I’m not prescribing this to you. I just want you to know this is how I am. I don’t mean any disrespect. We’re just different. I live the inverse of: “You won’t fail if you don’t try.”
Actually, come to think of it, since I hold the “lost most” card, I do want to prescribe this way of life to the four of you. Live a little. All four of you play it too safe.
Now, I know at least mom is rolling her eyes and asking “Why should I listen to him again?” “What’s he lost?” I’ve lost half of H-‘s childhood. Half. How’d I lose it? By passionately rushing into a marriage that K- and I should’ve seen wasn’t ever going to work. And let me be clear: It is no good that neither K- nor I can ever get back the time lost because of our decision–no good at all. But the flip side to that coin is we each get half of H-‘s childhood. And we would’ve never got any of it if we would’ve played it safe. And without H-, well, we’d all be worse off. You know that’s a fact.
I just smiled after writing that. Because it’s true. I’m actually excited now. (I love writing.) So until you convince me that you’ve lost as much, I’m not taking your advice to play it safe. I’m not going to pad the walls by considering all the outcomes or what strangers or relatives will think. I’m just going to keep doing what I’m going to do–and do it better. Forever. So there.
Life Alone
Diary style again…apologies.
Eudaimonia. Two years ago a professor wrote the word on the chalkboard in both Jesus-fish style Greek and the more familiar alphabet version. It had been a long time since someone had impressed me. Suffice it to say he had my attention. It means to flourish. Two years later almost to the day, today, I can’t help but wonder if anyone knows what it means to flourish.
Robert William Case, friend and author of Icarus and the Wingbuilder, does. But he’s already married. Actually, I could go on and on naming folks I know, 60+ years old, who demonstrate an understanding of eudaimonia daily.
But I want to find someone who understands it, is under thirty and, here’s the kicker, female. Does she exist? Because, unlike say Batman, God, or Rainbow Dash, this is a person that I don’t even think I’ve heard of existing.
By way of example, as I’ve mentioned before, I play the piano. Both the instrument and the piano. Yep, I don’t pass by opportunities to confess that I have the greatest one. Anyhow, once, after playing for an older lady friend, she flattered, “Oh Pete, you’d be wasted on a younger woman.” Oh boy. It’s a good thing I was sitting. But was she right? Most of the time I think so. And then when I discover not many young people can even play an instrument (one small attractive quality), let alone enjoy playing one (eudaimonia alert!), I reach a consensus.
One of the many reasons I left my last job was because I hadn’t been on a date since beginning it. The schedule was just too crazy. It’s been months now of not having any crazy schedule, of establishing some social patterns, of trying to meet new people, and still no change. When do I get to give up? Because this notion that there is hope is getting very old.
Did You Know?
I had no idea.
I haven’t had any ideas for this blog since learning this on Thursday or Friday night. That is, I can’t think of anything else to write except to share my slightly embarrassing astonishment at what I learned.
When I have H- I usually spend all the time she is asleep writing posts or writing books. But when I don’t have her, I am able to finally catch up on some reading. One book is (as I’ve mentioned before) N.T. Wright’s Jesus and The Victory of God. It is book two in a five book series on first century Jewish-then-Jewish/Christian history. From what I have been able to discern, it is tier one as far as historical critical scholarship goes. I say tier one to attempt to convince you that I am aware there are many good researchers who all come to different conclusions about such things, but to be honest, I’m kind of falling for the arguments Wright is making. Anyhow, I’m writing this now because I want to move on and write fun things again.
The information I was shocked to discover was that the temple Jesus of Nazareth displayed anger towards and overturned tables at etc. shortly before the crucifixion, this temple was not just the local baptist church in Jerusalem. It was the Temple. Capital T. The one that has been fought over for thousands of years. The one that has been destroyed and rebuilt and destroyed and now there is a Muslim structure on it blah, blah, blah. I had no idea. I feel pretty foolish. I grew up as a bible memorizing, save the world one non-believer at a time Southern Baptist and somehow totally missed this. I just thought that he picked one of the many mega churches that surely existed back then to make an example of. I think that’s some variation of projection and ethnocentrism. Oh well.
The real question is, of course, does any of this matter?
