Thank God for the Internet.

Linking random Family Circus cartoon panels with random Nietzsche quotes.

The Nietzsche Family Circus

"It is always consoling to think of suicide; in that way one gets through many a bad night."

Are we done yet?

Is it safe to watch the news again yet? Are we still poring over every scrap of effluvium spun from the life, career and death of Michael Jackson? Have we finished the post mortem that wouldn't die? Can we talk about something else now?

No?

Okay. I'll check back later then.

Pride.

Today was (Gay) Pride Day, a day I have to admit I enjoy because I like the feeling of being honored for, essentially, nothing. All I have to do is stay gay for this 24 hour period—not a particularly difficult task—and I get a day of my very own. Like St. Joseph or The Harlem Globetrotters or tweed.

And this year, Pride Day has the special distinction of being the 40th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots. In the early morning hours of June 28, 1969, the massively corrupt New York City Police Department conducted yet another of their routine spurious raids on bars that served People Like Us. They typically justified themselves with trumped up claims of liquor license violations. Then they arrested the patrons (disproportionately hauling away and humiliating women and people of color-- whomever was less likely to have the resources to do anything about it). This time, though, they fought back in the streets of Greenwich Village.

Oddly, although this used to be mentioned a lot, I have heard nothing this year about the back story: It wasn’t just another ordinary summer of degradation for the gay boys and girls of Lower Manhattan. Judy Garland had just died earlier in the week. Her funeral was on June 27, 1969, a massive event that some consider to be, unofficially, to be the first real Gay Pride parade. And then, everyone retired to their bars after the funeral, to numb their pain with alcohol, as is only right.

When the police busted in, the Stonewall kids were noble in their decision to fight back, to be sure. They were fed up. But they were also really depressed. And really drunk. They summoned the courage to fight back—the courage that only comes from a combination of grief-fueled existential angst and a pitcher of Singapore slings.

So in a way, we might also call it Reckless, Drunk, and Belligerent Pride Day. Another day just for me!

That being said, I haven’t really participated in the Pride festivities for a few years. Somewhere along the line, I got it in my head that pride is a notion bound up with self-respect. And that there are probably other ways for me to manifest that quality besides public intoxication and having sex with strangers. Which, I’m told, not everyone does when they go to the Pride parade. But really, why else would you waste a Sunday morning watching a stupid parade unless public intoxication and the promise of sex with a stranger were involved? For brunch? I think not. This day might just as well be called Three Hour Wait for a Table Day.

There was a time when I wouldn’t have missed the parade for anything. When the partying started early and didn’t end until—well, I’m not sure exactly when it usually ended. I know how it usually ended though: Waking up on my bathroom floor around 10:00pm or so, the cat licking little dried bits of pride out of my hair, peering at me with a vague sense of disgust in his eyes.

Even today, disinterested as I was in the parade, I had an alienated feeling as I walked back from the grocery store. Like I was blowing off Christmas. It made me wonder what the lesbian equivalent of Jewish is. Probably Baptist. I wondered if I should go to church instead today.

But no. The only church I know where the services are short enough for me to tolerate is also a really gay church. They are, in fact, so gay, so proud, so relentlessly empowering and supportive that I’m almost embarrassed for them. Like I’m not doing enough with my newfound spiritual liberation. I mean, here they are, throwing open the gates of heaven for me, fighting to give me rights that I’m not even sure I’m mature enough to handle, and am I out changing the world? No. I can't be bothered.

At least not until Liza Minelli dies.

Some Rules for Text Messaging

I only sent my first text message a few weeks ago. I am far from comfortable with it. I am still a little frightened by the sudden intrusion of someone else’s words on something I take out of my pocket, without any real warning. I suspect the feeling is akin to taking a Kleenex out of your pocket and suddenly discovering an image of the Virgin Mary. And you’re all, How’d that get there?

It takes me hours to compose a text message. Partially because I can’t convince myself that using overtly sloppy grammar, spelling shortcuts, or inadequate punctuation is anything but a slippery slope to hell itself. If, in fact, I could figure out how to integrate the judicious use of italics or footnotes in the text message format, I would probably do it.

Truly, I’m a novice. Far be it from me to expound on rules that should apply to the text messaging universe. And yet…

I received a text message tonight. (Or a text as the abbreviation-obsessed kids would say. And see how I employed that judicious use of italics right there? Ya can’t put a price on that kind of judiciousness.)

The text I received was of a reasonably serious nature concerning how my behavior adversely affects the emotional well being of the texter. Or at least that’s the best I can gather.

This sort of text should not be allowed.

Text messages should only involve one of the three following themes:
1. I just thought of something funny. (Hahahaha.)

2. I’m drunk. (Hahahaha.)

3. Let’s coordinate our plans. (Hahahaha.)

To text a serious message seems to me to be the communications equivalent of—say— trying to construct the Pentagon with a mound of damp tea cakes.

If you really have something to say, why would you choose such a frivolous medium?

That’s what I intend to ask Lola. Whenever I get up the energy to deal with someone who would so grievously misuse this woefully inadequate medium.

Last year, I was briefly romantically involved with Lola. This year, I am not. We used to work together at the Venerable Aerosol Cheese Factory. But we worked in wholly different departments and this should count toward lessening the degree to which I can be accused of being an idiot for violating the age old rule: Never slather your Triscuits with company cheese.

Whereas I was in the aerosol cheese production and distribution department, Lola was in aerosol cheese production system maintenance—a considerably less prestigious position, but as is typical of low prestige positions—much, much harder work.

Then she quit. Which was good for me but very bad for the operating efficiency of the aerosol cheese factory. So they finally got her to come back. Which is awkward for me. As my baseline behavior is awkward to begin with, additional degrees awkwardness taxes my functioning to its outer limits. I could not now be anymore awkward at work unless I also happened to be a newborn pony.

None of this story, incidentally, would not be appropriate for a text message. (“Incidentally” = “btw” for you texting kids out there.)

I have tried to maintain a warm but professional, friendly but not creepy, cheerful but not manic, demeanor with her. Apparently I am even less good at this than I am at texting.

At least that’s what I gather from her text message of: U dnt have to b like that 2 me.

Now how am I supposed to pick up on the nuances of this message in the incredibly nuance-free medium of the text message? There is no tone. No elaboration. In a medium where vowels are optional, subtext isn’t even a fleeting shadow.

So there ya go: I don’t have to be like that 2 her.

Like what? you ask. Why, like that, of course. Presumably, like me. And I would argue: Do so.

That would be, I think, a fine riposte via text message. But we both know if I do that there’ll be hell to pay. No doubt it will be further evidence for her that I’m being like that s’more. She won’t be able to gather from my response the implication that I’m more or less stuck with being me, despite her disapproval of that way that I am apparently being. And the reason she won’t be able to pick up on the implication of my response is because, of course, it would have been delivered via a text message. (Although to be honest, Lola and I could have re-enacted the Lincoln-Douglas debates and still been mostly unable to adequately convey our points to each other without burying ourselves in misinterpretions. Communication was never our strong suit.)

And now, God forbid, she should just dial the phone. (Which, I would note, takes way less time than composing a text message.)

So I'm stuck with either responding through a text message or telephoning her, thus elevating the medium and escalating the importance of the whole exchange. Does this exchange really deserve a promotion? What would it mean if I were the one to advance to a more direct medium? Would that imply that I remain invested in whatever is (or isn’t) going on between us? Should I just recklessly hop in a car and drive to her home? Stand outside her window with a boombox held high over my head, all John Hughes movie-style?

Ummm…no. It looks like rain.

Instead I’ll draw upon another of my new rules for text messaging: If she doesn't actually ask a question, I don’t have to answer. (Hahahaha.)