Managing Intolerance in Debate

Note:  I've been scrambling to write this in response to a growing conversation on facebook, and I've had to squeeze it in between other things.  In a desire to get in and say something, this thing is kind of a hack-job; I've not had the chance to edit it 100% properly, so the ideas may seem a little choppy at points, and I feel I bounce around a little.  I've gone up and down it a few times, but it still feels unpolished and somewhat incomplete.  Consider it merely a contribution, instead of a definitive statement.

In any debate with passionate people, the question of tolerance comes up.  The Left has a sort of monopoly on tolerance - typically, they are painted as the side that wishes to be sensitive to the needs of the disenfranchised groups.  Of course, this stance becomes more tricky when the Right comes along and begins to question the Left's capacity for tolerance by suggesting an intolerance towards, for instance, religion.  This is a rather strange sort of meta-approach to a given conflict.  How long must we suffer the ignorance of our opponents?  How can we handle an opponent whose perspective demands the violation of our principles, while our principles demand the respect of their right to their beliefs?  When someone is suggesting that another's entire perspective, the way that person interacts with and navigates the world, is false, the accused will undoubtedly feel oppressed.  What level of tolerance is necessary when two ideologies come into direct conflict?

Baby, It's [Getting Old] Outside

Something I've noticed cropping up consistently over the past few years...

Picture it:  Two lovers have spent some time together at the Male Lover's house, just as a blizzard picks up.  Fraught with concerns over her sense of responsibility to others, the Female Lover suggests that she must leave.  The Male Lover, thinking only of spending time with his love, doesn't relent in his attempts to convince her to spend the night with him.

OR!

Picture it:  A man and a woman are alone in a house as a blizzard begins.  The woman is reluctant to stay through the storm, but the man continually pressures her into staying with him, attempting to distract her with music and alcohol.  Though he knows she has others who will want her home, he continues to insist that she stay.  She continues to resist his advances, but he does not let up.

These are two interpretations of the song "Baby, It's Cold Outside."

Life Sucks, Quit Asking Why.

**The following is from an e-mail conversation with a friend. We were discussing why I've come to admire and respect Christianity more and more as I've delved deeper into Buddhism.  It was also published in another personal blog of mine.**

The Book of Job is, in my opinion, the whole point. Everything about existence and the metaphysical unknown boils down to the Book of Job. Are you familiar with it? If not, I'll give you the short version here.

So there's this guy, Job, and he's a man with a decent amount of wealth, a good wife, and several children. He's got healthy livestock and as a result he's doing really well for himself. Job straight up LOVES God - one of the most pious dudes you'll ever meet. One day, God is chilling, watching the earth and it's goings-on, when the Devil walks over all curious like - "Heyyyyy buddddyyyy, whatcha doin'?" And God's like, "Yo, look at how awesome I am, this guy Job fuckin' LOVES me."

Lucifer, of course, is the original Devil's Advocate, and says, "Yeah yeah, that guy only likes you so much because he's got a good life. Let me go down there and stir shit up, I'll have him cursing your name in no time." At this, God chuckles and says, "You're on - Loser buys dinner."

So Satan goes on down and straight up murders all of Job's livestock, ruining his networth and effectively making him poor. Job is distraught, but still he says his prayers and totally digs on God.

"Bitch, please. I told you that shit wouldn't work - you owe me dinner," says God.

"Did I Rape Her?" - Royse, Rape, and Realization

The question itself seems stupid, doesn't it? 

"Did I Rape Her?"

Let me start out with an apology - maybe this isn't the forum, maybe this isn't even the way I should be doing it, but I'm out of ideas:

To any girl who's been sexually assaulted or raped by me, I am sorry.  Truly, deeply sorry.  This post is, in a way, my attempt to begin righting my wrongdoings.

To my knowledge, I have not sexually assaulted or raped anyone - but a recent article about "Nice Guys" and rape, and responses to that article, have gotten me thinking.  The article is by Alyssa Royse over at the Good Men Project, you'll find a story about Royse's friend, a male, getting accused of rape and coming to Royse to sort through the event and accusation.  In subsequent responses like this or this, Royse is attacked for taking the blame off of her male friend and moving it to society.  While most agreed society has a role, they continued to argue as if Royse was setting feminism and rape culture back by decades, if not more.  "The guy is a rapist," they said (I'm paraphrasing), "and he shouldn't get away with it."

Royse IS credited with never denouncing the act in question as rape - she's very clear on that point.  And I agree that this was rape.  From the small amount of information provided in the original article, we see that the two parties in question were partying, drinking, and then found themselves sleeping with (not sexing) each other.  The victim then awoke to penetration by the perpetrator (Royse's friend).  The clear response to this scenario is something akin to a Facebook response I received when I shared these articles - "A guy should know that when a girl is asleep, it's not okay to have sex with her."  I mean, ostensibly, this is true, but the incident as portrayed in Royse's article is (understandably) light on detail. 

The argument is, "Men should know not to rape."  Maybe it even goes further - "People should know..." - but I think what the responses to Royse's article failed to take into account is that maybe this guy was a "nice guy."  I hate using personal examples - one can never provide too much detail - but they've become the norm in discussions like these.  Rape is a charged issue, as it should be, but because personal examples inherently carry incredibly private details and triggering circumstances, the situations can never really be discussed in public.  I think the response that follows this particular desire-for-details is one of "Why does it need to be discussed?" because there's this sense that some agent of patriarchy (I am not in any way using this sarcastically) will attempt to use details to nitpick and victim blame.  There's validity in that thought - there's a tendency amongst males to get incredibly defensive about situations like this, and in their defensiveness, to focus too much on getting out of trouble and not enough on fixing this huge systemic problem we have.

Nazis, Fleshmasks, and Shock Treatment: AHS Teaches Us a Lesson

     American Horror Story has done it again.

     You know, when this second season started, it's a safe bet to say I was excited yet unsure.  Though titled "American Horror Story" the show seemed to me to be simply a horror story set in America.  The inclusion of the Black Dhalia and the Hollywood tours and Halloween were sort of tributes to Uncle Sam, but nothing really concrete.  Then again, maybe I didn't look at the show back then quite like I'm looking at it now.  The point is that I think AHS has definitively earned its self-appointed descriptor in the second season.

Spoilers will abound, so be careful when proceeding!

Happy People Suck.

 

***
 

    Happy people - ich.  The words are as disgustingly peppy as the people they describe;  HAP-PEE-PEE-PULL.  Gross, right?  Their unabashed joy is such a downer - who honestly wants to see two puppy lovers making out in line while they wait for their burger in the food court?  Who wants to see a big fat smile or hear a stupid cliche while they're brooding over financial woes or love troubles or are just in a bad mood?  And the absolute worst is when someone tells me, "Cheer up!" - Fuck you, buddy!  Don't tell me what to do!

...asshole.

     I got to thinking about this while listening to some Cat Stevens on my commute.  A friend once told me Cat was, "cheesy."  Honestly, I can't deny there's some truth to that - with songs like, "I Love My Dog," an artist is toeing a fine line between art and dairy products.  For a long time, as a writer myself, I thougt it impossible to write a happy story that was actually any "good" - not Transformers good, but Schindler's List good.  Happy stuff is just kind of... obnoxious!  But you know, I think sometimes a little cheese can make a bad taste better.  Sure, maybe we'll feel awkward while the couple swaps spit, or maybe Mary-from-Accounting's bright-eyed face will seem to be inviting your fist to take a shot, but just roll with it.  It's hard to handle happy people when we're upset, but every time I've rolled my eyes at a bubbly, ear-to-ear smiler, I think I was really just complaining about my own situation.

     "Oh Mister Joyjoy over here's got no problems at all.  Look at you, with your... your teeth and your... your extra large latte.  Yeah, keep smiling, you bastard - I'm glad you can afford that extra large latte.  It's not like some of us have bills to pay or anything.  Not everyone just inherits a rent-controlled apartment, you know?  So, yeah, keep looking down your nose at me, you ass.  Don't bother considering the REST of the world's problems, you narcissistic, self-satisfied prick. "

     See?  It's hard to like all you happy people - no one wants to see all that unadulterated elation, okay?  It's gross.  Go get a room and make out with the mirror if you're so pleased with yourself.  I'll stay here and think about how much I hate that someone else could feel good while I'm sitting here feeling shitty.

Purpose in Poetics - Narcissism and Neglect

    
What happens when people take "write what you know," and "poetry is personal," too far?  Stupid, self-centered poets.  Or perhaps I should say, "more self-centered," if I'm being honest.  Today I look at why I think a lot of poetry from my generation sucks.

***



     We live in a visual world. Television was just the start, providing attention-grabbing visual entertainment with minimal effort. As the medium got older, and TV became more pervasive, the number of programs increased as the quality decreased. The Boob Tube is just that - you can be a couch potato and funnel fun into your frontal lobe for a limited expenditure of energy. With computers, and later, smartphones, we've found a way to make content boobery interactive. When you can digitally water your digital vegetables from anywhere you actually are, why bother with other forms of entertainment? Why bother interacting at all? If you were to add up all the time together, my friends and I have probably spent several full work days together just absorbed in our phones (yes, I am as guilty as anybody). It's just so goddamn addictive.

But what's this got to do with poetry?