Your Peace Offering Stepped on My Testicle

It's tempting for many, especially at this time of year, to fall back on Charlie Brooker's eloquent position regarding love. After all, it's a loaded topic, forever imprisoned on a pedestal by both the lucky and unlucky in love, many of whom know better but act otherwise. We pretend that love isn't susceptible to the same power relationships and false advertising that our other institutions are infected with. So, when love falters (as it will, from time to time), we get huffy and disillusioned. Because love is supposed to be different, it's supposed to be too important for that. And because every one of us occasionally mistakes cynicism for wisdom. Our standards for love are high because what sets love apart as a value is that when love is real, it endures through the storm in a way others won't. It might come out bruised and dented, but it's there.

I'm 26 and I'm happily married and if I think that I know more about love than anyone else, I should be struck through the scrotum with a fish hook and dragged into the Potomac.

Speaking of my scrotum, here's a story:

Mrs. Half-Drunken Scribe and myself got married last May. In September, we moved into our new apartment. A few weeks into our tenure at the new place, she and I are feeding the cat (you remember Olivia, I trust--she'll be important later), brushing our respective teeth, and generally doing the things that are a part of our process of going to bed on a weeknight. Because we're multi-taskers, we're also arguing about something. I can't remember what. No, really, I can't. And neither can she. Why? Because it was a small and stupid argument. The kind of small and stupid argument that spelled the end my relationships once upon a time. Whatever it was, she and are going back and forth, very likely knowing that the argument is stupid. But we remain entrenched in it because neither of us can handle the psychic impact of the conclusion: one of us winning a stupid battle and the other--horror of horrors--being wrong.

A part of me, I think, senses the impasse. It's the same part of my brain that's always eager to play this next card. And though it means I'll be forever bad at arguments and extemporaneous debate, I can't bear to shut this part of me off, for fear of losing an integral part of who I am.

I begin deliberately irritating her. Not pissing her off, mind you, that's different. I don't believe in picking fights. But, I will sometimes try to annoy her with little things, like responding to her serious inquires by reenacting this scene. Or replying to her questions as Batman (if she says "I swear to God," how am I not supposed to respond with this?). What can I say? She's cute when she's mildly aggravated. A lot of guys do this in relationships, responding to her every groan with a bemused laugh until she's genuinely angry. I don't know how that works with gay couples--some kind of ongoing loop of childish antics, I guess. Although, without the reaction, what's the point?

Anyway, I retreat to bed because that seems the best place to avoid the discussion. At least until I remember that it's also her bed. Before long, L walks into the bedroom, holding Olivia aloft and says "I bring you a peace offering." She plunks Olivia down on to my chest and the cat, as she often will after being involuntarily transported, turns around and walks away. Struts away, in fact, in that way that cats do when they don't have any place to be but don't want to be where they are. Cats live in the moment; there is no past, there is no future, there is only "I'm not involved in this shit." So she's strutting away. And, maybe this is just the way she's walking, but as though making a point of doing so, Olivia's back paw lands on my right testicle. Righty, the one that hangs a little lower than the other.

She doesn't step hard, mind you, and most of her weight had landed on my thigh. Everything's still intact. Pain signals move slightly slower than the "something happened" signals.

The wife takes her first cue from my wince. She's grown kind of fond of me and wants kids one day, so, for a second, she genuinely feels bad for Righty. Then she sees me unclench and knows everything's fine and breathes a sigh of relief. And then she laughs, evolution's Everything's Okay alarm.

This symbolizes marriage. Somehow. Karma is involved; you act like a dick and get it back in a note of imperfect poetic irony. There's fleeting physical pain that's so superficial, it demands laughter for medicine.

It's also beautifully mundane. She and I don't have the independent wealth-financed lives of leisure, world travel, and gym time that either of us would like. We go to work every day and come home tired and sometimes resentful of whatever the Metro's cooked up for us. We drop our shit on the floor in the entryway, collapse onto the sofa, and together we summon the necessary strength to cook dinner. And she does grad school on top of it all, so the amount of room I have to complain about any of it is about as roomy as a... not-so-roomy thing.

While not every day is wine, roses, beer, and X-Box, we do the banality together. If that seems unromantic, well, it is. She and I do romance, sure, but that's our business. The point is, the fictionalized exaggerated version of love that we're sold from childhood is fine when kept in context. But it's as much about the everyday trivialities; sharing a fridge for seventeen years, as Brooker says. In between, you buy her flowers, just because. And you let him play video games for another hour or two, just because. If you can't do that, then the better parts of it--the big moments you've been promised--won't mean a thing, if they happen at all.

Are you upset because it's Valentine's Day and you're alone? Because you're disappointed? Because you're expected to put in some effort? Yeah, fair enough. But remember that Valentine's is just the avatar of the entire concept we've bought and sold to ourselves since forever. If you want to be cynical and say that you're not buying into today, go for it. Post those "Fuck Valentine's" Facebook statuses (that's sure to stick it to The Man). I don't have the moral ground to hash that out with you and it's probable that you've earned your dyspepsia. However, it might pay to consider how you ended up here. And remember that you can only blame an abstract concept for so much.

"It's not all Disney princess shit," as the wife says. She's so sweet. On the third anniversary of the day I proposed to her, I love her as much as I did then. Happy Valentine's Day, kitten.

The Internet Likes Cats, Right?

 
Olivia was a months-old kitten when she was found abandoned in the woods of West Virginia. Starving and probably cold in the mountain air, she was nursed back to health by a co-worker of a friend. Said co-worker was unable to care for Olivia for long (work commitments, or something, I never got the complete story), and reached out to whoever could provide a decent home.

My wife--then my girlfriend--had been asking for a cat from (quite literally) the moment she could speak. She cites destiny for the fact that she was wearing black and white the day she learned that a small black and white cat needed a home. I classify it as something more like coincidence. Wearing a cat costume on the day she learned of Olivia: that would've been destiny. Nonetheless, Olivia would be L's a few days later.*

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*I don't think I've mentioned this before, but my wife will remain unnamed here, per her request. I suggested some code names for her (she shot down both "Starfox" and "Shaniqua"), but she decided that the initial "L" will suffice, alternating with "the wife."
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Olivia didn't yet know or trust L or myself--especially myself. During my first stay-over following Olivia's adoption, L woke in the middle of the night to find Olivia literally pissing on her; the wife blamed my apparently disconcerting presence, I blamed the cat. At several points, I reiterated my desire to name her "Goddammit" because, when it comes to cats, a name like "Goddammit" just saves time.

Goddammit Olivia mostly calmed down over the next few weeks, which is why I felt more or less comfortable taking her in when L had to go out town unexpectedly. And so, after a nice dinner at L's, we proceeded to pour Olivia into her carrier (a first for Olivia, whose hatred for the plastic box both peaked and plateaued that night) and, with no car and no convenient bus route, lugged her mewling, sobbing, pooping ass a mile and a half to my apartment. Once there, the wife cleaned cat shit from both Olivia and the carrier while I called my cat-allergic roommate to explain the temporary situation (I felt significantly less bad when I learned that while we were doing this, he had been at the Samuel Adams brewery, tasting a then-experimental offering that would later become Latitude 48).

A few months later, we threw Olivia back into her carrier and moved her into our first apartment together. Three years and two apartments later, Olivia remains a crucial element to our household. A crucial, noisy, haughty, dumb, adorable element. The sort of element that mews intermittently during the night, occasionally climbing on top of us as a reminder that she's still awake and why the hell aren't we? An element which, in spite of some obvious learning disabilities, has figured out a way to make her nine-pound frame take up a third of the bed. An element that will demand to be played with, get us to play with her, grow bored two minutes later, start demanding more play ten minutes after that, and get us to go along with it every step of the way. An element who runs from everything and everyone and still gets it in her head that she'll hunt us: running after us at top speed down the hallway, pulling up short at the door, and then slapping her paws against the door frame, demented eyes staring up at us, as though to remind us that we only continue to live at her whim.  This terrifies my wife and makes me fear for my wife's sanity; "it's not the ability, it's the intent," she testifies, each time that much closer to a psychotic break.

And yet. 

As a matter of routine, we'll get home from work at the end of the day, crumple onto the couch, and flip on comforting, predictable Seinfeld reruns in order to summon the strength needed to rise and make dinner. And like clockwork, this little hairball plops down into our laps, looks up at us with those big, black pupils, and begins to rumble. And, knowing full well that it's a trick--a trick keeping us from doing something we need to do--we melt. Because that's what cats do to earn their keep: fifteen seconds of minimal labor per day that makes them absolutely indispensable once they've wormed their way into your heart. The rest is unreconstructed id. And you love them for that.

This post has nothing to do with acquiring page hits (it kinda does). There's context for this. Or, rather, this is the context for a future post that had grown too large already. But, as she would remind me--and as I'm sure the wife would agree--Olivia deserves her own post, anyway.

Half-Drunken Time Travel

As you know, part of the 21st Century Social Contract is that the first person to gain access to a working time machine has to go back and kill Hitler. Preferably before he reaches apex Hitler. You may choose to take him down in, say, 1914; he's easy enough to spot (the guy knew how to stick to a look). If you're really lazy, you could opt to take on Hitler circa 1895. I mean, how easy would that be? No matter what age Hitler I got, I'd rub a little dog shit on his upper lip, indulging in some irony that literally no one will ever get because he's not going to live long enough to tarnish an already ugly mustache (by the way, this would also save Michael Jordan from later inflicting this upon himself and the world). And whatever you do: don't just leave Hitler for dead. You don't want to run the chance that he'll survive, get some hyper-advanced prostheses (Nazi scientists), and come back even angrier than before. Then you're responsible for Steampunk Hitler.

The only trouble is, this option is an easy out on the admittedly annoying  "what would you do with a time machine" question. You're not going to use the thing once, surely. Especially not after the kick-ass job you just did saving history. So. How do you celebrate killing Hitler?

I'd start by going back to 1527 and challenging Henry VIII to a drinking contest. Bare in mind: I'm not picking this fight to win control of the not yet extant Anglican Church, or anything; I just need to know how well I'd do.

At this point, I--drunk out of my mind and undoubtedly having forgotten that I've already killed Hitler--would try to kill Hitler again. Upon seeing my past self doing just that, however, I would probably  become confused and disoriented and would have to sit down until my head stopped throbbing. I'm speculating here, but drinking while time traveling cannot do wonders for the cognitive faculties in the short term.

Once my head is clearer, I'd take in a dinosaur fight or two. Because so would you.

Then I'd head over to 1953 and find a young Donald Trump. And I'd be nice to him, really nice. I'd play with him for a few hours, offering to do whatever he wanted to do. And just before we parted ways, never to see each other again, I'd give little Donald a great big hug, look him in the eye, and tell him that he's a really good, sweet kid and that no one can ever take that away from him. 

Feeling good about myself, I'd finish my journey by jumping to 1690, where I'd promptly take credit for composing Pachelbel's Canon in D. Now, another man might use that status to get all kinds of syphilitic 17th Century ass. But, having seen dinosaur fights, I would know there's more to live for than easy, Enlightenment Era orgies. I just want the credit for creating modern pop music. Plus, marriage vows probably apply across time and space.

Of course, here and there, you have to stop and check out the important things. Be in the room when Johannes Gutenberg first explains his invention (to a smart person). See Lincoln at work in the Oval Office (the man just let people wander in, as though no one was looking to waste him). Hear The Beatles record "Love Me Do." Be at NASA headquarters for the Moon landing. Convince a teen-aged Park Jae-sang to go to med school instead of pursuing a career in music.

These are some of history's seminal moments. Missing those would be like walking by the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris and not stopping in to check on Oscar Wilde's grave. Or walking by the Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris and not stopping in to spit on Jim Morrison's grave. These are the drab must-dos of time travel. Or, to put it another way, the things people expect you to tell them about when you return, so that you can't be accused of wasting your time. This category is not to be confused with the things that may seem like wastes to other people, but that made all the difference to you in ways that would be impossible to explain to someone else.

Time travel, like life, is filled with the things we must do, the things that will define who we have been. And those things will get done. But fully ignoring the things we want to do deprives us of a fuller journey that gives the must-dos purpose and meaning. It's like science and art; one we need, the other we wouldn't want to live without. Put yet another way: Doc Brown's orthodox sense of responsibility and Marty McFly's caution-to-the-wind sensibility are disastrous separately. Together, they make each other worthwhile. Occasionally these two categories will overlap into a beautiful amalgam and you'll get to kill Hitler or watch raptors wail on each other. But the rest of the time, we have to find the balance.

Oh, bring a T-Rex to 1914 to kill Hitler! Yes. Nailed it.

In Brief: Ray Bradbury

I think it's because I was never as into sci-fi as many of my friends were that I never got as into Ray Bradbury as those same friends.  In my years of a more intense kind of dystopia-fanboyism, I always felt compelled to shrug at anyone who put Fahrenheit 451 in the same league with 1984 and Brave New World.  It was good, but somehow lacked the thorough societal examination that I thought the others had done so well; or just one man's cranky, if accurate, rant against television--part of a tech-suspicious philosophy he held on to to the last.  As that part of my life faded--and as I started to recognize that Asimov was probably the most accurate predictor of the future (Huxley took silver in that race, Orwell the bronze)--I still thought of Bradbury's opus as an also-ran. 

But one of his short stories has managed to stick with me for several years.  Because it's a short story and because it's relatively easy to find and because you were probably forced to read it in high school, too, I won't recount the details of A Sound of Thunder, which doesn't have the weight of Fahrenheit, but remains lodged in my brain much more tightly.  Not for the dinosaur-hunting (though that alone might have done it), but for his simplifying of the concept of time travel and alternate timelines, a topic that many writers often seem to want to make as complicated and unapproachable as possible.  That simple, almost reductive, embrace of the complex that usually turned me off to his work (while endearing millions of people more reasonable than I), actually served to draw me in and direct me to the heart of the idea: the interconnectedness of all things and the humor, tragedy, romance and horror that are part and parcel with that connection.  And though the ending of A Sound of Thunder was probably more of a funny idea to him than a warning to us, it contained an important tie-in with his philosophy about life being "too serious to take seriously:" it's probably not worth the analysis we're inevitably going to give it.

Come On, Jurassic Park Scenario

Jack Horner, world-acclaimed paleontologist and technical adviser for the Jurassic Park movies has a plan to reverse-evolve chicken embryos to bring a living dinosaur into our world.  I'm going to skip the part about how Horner--who, and this can't be repeated enough, helped guide Spielberg's dinosaur-crafting hands on Jurassic fucking Park--should recognize the danger in this plan.  I'm also skipping the science, not because I don't entirely understand it (I don't) but because screw the details, the world needs dinosaurs again! 

Of course, some of Horner's partners in this plan say it's merely about scientific curiosity and learning about what happened to these wonderful, amazing creatures as they died out and otherwise turned into birds.  Now, as I recall (and I recall correctly), that's the exact same curiosity that led to Scottish-born entrepreneur John Hammond funding the technology to reproduce these animals wholesale.  They can guise their work in any way they want because we know where it leads: someplace awesome. 

My generation--people who were kids in the 90s--has shamefully forgotten its childhood.  And by childhood, I mean the beautiful summer of '93 when we were all about Jurassic Park.  Come on, you remember.  That Jurassic Park t-shirt your mom had to beg you to let her wash once in a while.  Those toys--the best bloody toys ever merchandised from a major movie franchise.  That dinosaur book you carried everywhere you went because you weren't yet old enough to care that girls found it weird.  Some of the more advanced among us even attempted to read Michael Crichton's original novel and understood maybe half of it but we didn't care because we understood the only words that mattered: T-fucking-Rex.  And admit it, when you first read the word "dinosaur" up there, John Williams' theme immediately burst into your head. 

2012 finally rolls around and the best our imaginations can do for apocalypse scenarios are zombies and global warming?  Please.  At this rate, we don't even deserve to be chased and trampled and eaten by Rexes and Raptors and other Clever Girls.  To be pushed so far in our desperation to be rid of the terrible Thunder Lizards we've re-wrought upon the Earth that we use all of our most destructive weapons and take ourselves out in the process?  But, sure, keep holding tight to your End Days fantasies of robots and super-viruses and Jesus.  Guys like me and Jack Horner will be sitting over here, scoffing at your limited visions.

Fuck yeah, it is.