Tag Archives: rant

Simply Put

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I don’t think this is that hard to get: extending humanity, civil rights, economic opportunity, and dignity to a race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or sexuality does not subtract any of these things from your race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or sexuality*. Humanity, civil rights, economic opportunity, and dignity are not finite resources. 

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* Unless you believe that your race, ethnicity, religion, gender, or sexuality requires you to deny or ignore others’ humanity, civil rights, economic opportunity, and dignity. If that’s the case, you should neither be accommodated, nor pitied. 

Talking Pictures

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I want to share with you a cinematic pet peeve, one which disproportionately affects fantasy and science fiction movies, and that is the opening voiceover narration.  

A good example of this is the classic Sean Connery monologue: “From the dawn of time we came, moving silently through the centuries, living many secret lives, struggling to reach the time of the gathering, when the few who remain will battle to the last. No one has ever known we were among you… until now.” Aside from the fact that it kickstarts an awesome Queen song (also, it showcases that sexy, sexy Scottish brogue), it serves no purpose to The Highlander whatsoever. All of the information contained within is shared with the audience over the course of the film.  

Can you imagine what it would have been like to see The Highlander for the first time, watching wrestling, followed by Christopher Lambert straight-up beheading a dude, getting struck by lightning, and then appearing in sixteenth-century Scotland, sporting a nearly incomprehensible accent? You’d be all like, “What the fart? I’d better stick around for answers!”  

But since you’ve had a ton of spoilers dumped on you right away, you don’t ever get that chance. If the first few minutes of The Highlander were a post on Twitter or 4Chan, it would be berated, openly or passive aggressively, until it was taken down. 

The opening narration assumes that the audience won’t get what’s going on, and doesn’t have the intelligence or patience or trust in the filmmakers to stick around and find out. 

Here’s an example of how the opening narration could go horribly, horribly wrong: Imagine a movie that starts out with the “Warner Brothers presents…” card, followed by a panoramic view of a dark, devastated city. Words in a green font crawl up the screen, and the deep voice of Lawrence Fishburne reads them. “In the future, war raged between man and machine. Machine won. They enslaved mankind, taking from them their homes, their freedom, their bodies, and even their very minds, trapping them in a virtual reality world called ‘The Matrix,’ patrolled by sinister Agents whose sole purpose is to keep mankind from discovering its ultimate fate. But all hope is not lost, for there exists in this world a band of freedom fighters … and they are fighting back.” And cut to Carrie Ann Moss ruthlessly slaughtering four regular Joes just doing their low-paying civil-service job. 

So, Hollywood, if you’re reading this, knock it off. Trust your audience for once. 

An Open Letter to a Freelancer

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As you may know, I, along with ten others, am being featured in a crowd-funded fiction anthology. More than enough money was made to get it printed and pay the authors, and so The Editor got the idea to hire illustrators to do their takes on each of the stories. The talent works with each other at their own discretion, because really, it’s the publisher and not the author who contracts and pays The Artist. 

There appears, in my story, a small “twist” that feeds into what I believe is the overall theme of the work; the problem is, it’s actually kind of a challenge not to spoil that twist. I reached out The Artist and mentioned that this was something I was worried about. The Artist didn’t respond to me … well, The Artist sort of did respond, but only sort of … more on that below, in the text of the letter. 

The completed piece arrived, and it was a snapshot of a scene, with a major error, as well as a flagrant blowing-off of that request I’d sent off a day or so earlier. I sent an e-mail that reads (edited for secret content):  

I like the style of the piece[*], but I have two problems with it. 1) the first scene takes place [not in the setting you’ve presented]; and 2) I’ve gone through a lot of trouble—including the story description I wrote and the short excerpt I picked out for indiegogo and my Facebook campaign—to hide [the spoiler]. [This] is a very important part of the story for me. 

The first half of the response I got from The Artist consisted entirely of quotes from my story—not even a hello—followed by an explanation of why I was totally wrong about [spoiler] and the setting of the scene that I wrote. In the story. That I wrote. The letter wrapped up with: “Lastly the editor is the person who contracted me on this project and she has given the final stamp of approval and paid me for the work.” 

This really upset me, like, a lot. I told The Editor that I refused to work with The Artist, and I demanded that this piece not be associated with me. The Editor handled it like a boss, so it’s not my problem anymore. However, that e-mail pretty much ruined my day, so I wrote a letter I have no intention of sending to make myself feel better. And it worked. 

***

Dear Artist; 

I’m a freelance illustrator. I get what it’s like when you turn in a piece and the client isn’t happy with it. I get that I’m not your client. And I get that this is a work-for-hire piece that doesn’t pay very much.  

Clearly you don’t care about the piece you just completed. It was a paycheck. This much was expressed in the way you answered the email I sent you while you were still working on it, in which I made a request about the content—a request I considered “very important.” Actually, you had your spouse answer the email by asking if I was being sarcastic, and letting me know that both of you had barely read my story. 

Here’s the thing: I care about this project, and I care a lot. I spent countless hours writing it, and I am personally invested in how the art turns out. It’s not your job to care, but you could at least pretend. 

You had three options to respond, all of which could have made you look like a professional: you could have changed the art in some way to reflect the concern I had expressed to you before you turned it in (from a freelancer’s perspective, this is the least desirable option, but it still is one); you could have explained that we had different interpretations, but the art was approved and you can’t make any changes; or, if my criticism pissed you off enough, not respond at all. You chose a fourth option, which was to behave like a thin-skinned tween.  

I don’t expect this letter to affect you in any way. You have a business, and it has somehow continued to function despite your communication skills. More importantly, your response to criticism leads me to assume that you don’t like to consider the perspectives of others. I don’t think you’ve even made it this far, unless you’re rage-reading. 

I’m writing this for me, because my feelings were genuinely hurt by your thinly veiled contempt for me. I’m trying to soothe my anger at your behavior by spelling out just what it was about your email that pissed me off. And now that this is out of the way, I can express my initial reaction much more succinctly: 

Grow the fuck up and be nice to others for a change, you narcissistic prima donna. 

Sincerely, 

Jeremiah Murphy 

Writer and Artist 

_____ 

* I actually didn’t, but I wanted to work with the person, because The Editor seemed to think it was a good match. 

This One Is Serious

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The stupid, stupid exchange and hair-pulling with Evil Sister is just plain stupid. Like real stupid. This, however, is not. 

This past weekend—the time of which is unclear, given that Mountain Time in the US is nine hours different than mine—my niece was attacked by her soon-to-be stepfather’s dog. The doctors are using words like “skin grafts” and “reconstructive surgery” for her face, and are going to look into these options on Thursday. Her mother is getting married on Wednesday. 

The dog isn’t evil—dogs really aren’t. In fact, Almost Stepfather rescued this formerly abused one from a kill shelter and gave him a loving home. He’s really skittish, but overall pretty sweet. But I’ve seen it before; if a dog with this kind of history feels cornered, he or she will lash out. And that dog, regardless of how sweet he or she is, needs to go. 

For one, the dog is clearly broken and suffering. There is no therapy for canine PTSD, and it is hurting. For another, many homeowner’s insurance companies will drop your coverage if there is a dog attack on your property and the dog remains there; at the very least, they will not cover a lawsuit based on a subsequent attack. And if a dog lashes out at an owner who loves it (and make no mistake, my niece really loved that dog), imagine what it would do to a stranger. And that brings to focus the most important problem—my niece is in danger.  

Which is why what’s going on is so upsetting. Almost Stepfather and Evil Sister have decided that, now that my niece is home from the hospital, bandaged and traumatized, that it is her decision as to whether or not the dog stays. A thirteen-year-old girl’s decision. A thirteen-year-old who loves her Almost Stepfather. A thirteen-year-old girl with a passive-aggressive bully for a mother. 

My parents are not happy, and they are talking to them about it. That’s all they feel they can do, and that’s all I feel I can do. 

Currently my wife and I aren’t speaking to each other, because she doesn’t agree. She thinks that I am “not doing everything in my power to protect this girl that I love.” And by that she means that I should call local animal control and have them deal with the situation. She doesn’t trust my parents to handle it. She understandably doesn’t trust Evil Sister. And she doesn’t trust that my niece will feel safe saying no to her mother and Almost Stepfather. My wife fears the worst, and she’s angry at me that I won’t act on it. 

I’m really frightened and upset. I’m frustrated that my niece has been put in this unfair situation. I’m furious that I don’t feel safe enough to discuss it with my own spouse, because she thinks that I am failing my family. Am I failing my family? I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. 

I feel so alone right now. 

Update 

After consulting with friends about the dog attack on my niece that caused her to have skin grafts, I did some homework. Some of the stuff took digging and involved legalese and PDFs galore, but I did find some useful information, such as New Mexico’s definition of a dangerous dog. I also discovered that any hospital treating a dog bite must report it to Animal Control within twenty-four hours. I phoned their headquarters and asked them about the their procedure about dealing with dangerous dogs, and they told me that, if there is no history, then the dog’s fate is at the discretion of the owner. 

As you know, my niece, who has to have skin grafts (I can’t get over this) was given the decision regarding the fate of the dog. She has decided that it stays. I am not happy. Both of my parents are not happy. My other sister, who is in town for my Evil Sister’s wedding is not happy (in her words, “When you can see the whites of a dog’s eyes all the time, that dog needs to be put down for his own good”). But it’s not our decision. It’s theirs. 

Twisted Sister

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I am in a shit mood this morning because of two events back home in New Mexico. Both have to do with my sister—the one to whom I no longer speak. I try not to use gender-specific insults when I actually mean them, which eliminates the adjectives I want to use to describe her. She is a terrible person. 

I’ll cover these in order of importance, because the first one is just plain stupid, the second one is physically dangerous. The first is that my sister is getting married this week to someone who is, by all accounts, a great guy. And I’m happy about it. I don’t think it’s necessarily fair (I know too many people who don’t get to marry great people), still, if he makes her happy, then happiness is something I want people to feel. Even …  

Her. 

Besides, my parents are thrilled that she found someone, and my niece really loves him, and a good stepfather is priceless.  

This is how she chose to tell me: 

You may have already heard from someone else, but I just wanted to let you know that [my boyfriend] and I have decided to get married on April 10th. We don’t expect anything, I just thought I should tell you. 

I’d feel a little nicer about her actually taking the time to tell me, but clearly her arm had been twisted.  

No one in my family has asked if I’m coming, or even expressed any sort of regret that I’m not. This is actually very painful to me. I know that they don’t want to get in the middle of a fight, and they think it’s easier just to let the two of us “work it out.” (We won’t.) And so my family and at least one friend is going to be taking part in this big-deal thing, but because my sister is such a [don’t use gender-specific insults, Jeremiah! Don’t do it!], I’m not a part of it. I feel like I’m being punished for her behavior. And because no one will talk about it, I don’t even feel like I’ll even be missed. 

Going anyway would have been a challenge, because I currently live in Qatar, which is nine time zones away. While I was talking to my father yesterday, he had an idea: if it was okay with Evil Sister, maybe he could set up the laptop so that I could watch the wedding on Skype. For starters, this made me so happy, because it suddenly felt like my absence would be noticed. Second, if I could avoid actually talking to Evil Sister, I wanted to be there. Because I’m family, goddammit.  

I didn’t expect Evil Sister to be okay with it, which is something I totally respect. It’s her wedding after all. This is how she chose to tell me: 

I don’t my wedding day to involve dad being mad at me, so I would appreciate it if you said no about the Skype thing. He never asked me before he invited you. I expect you to say no, but I don’t want you to end up trying to make him happy at the expense of everyone else’s comfort. 

It’s the first thing I saw in my e-mail when I awoke. I replied: 

I’m sorry that Dad never asked you before mentioning it to me. That was a little inconsiderate of him. It also really touched me, because I’m happy that you’re getting married, I really am. I had actually wanted to watch the wedding on Skype. I had planned on coming up with a way that you and I didn’t actually have to speak, or if we did, to be curt and cordial. I still don’t like you. 

Your message is childish and rude. 

By the way, I put some thought into it, and the answer is no. I’m not going to tell Dad that I don’t want to Skype. I respect your decision not to have me there, and you can rest assured I won’t be, but I’m not going to lie to him for you.  

What followed was a long string of back-and-forth in which she told me to “go ahead and think you’re fighting the good fight,” and I told her I actually am being sincere, and that “I know what kind of person you think I am, because you’ve told me. Why should I bother trying to convince you that I am ‘fighting the good fight’? I don’t have to pretend to be the better person.” She concluded by telling me that if I really wanted her to wish her well, I should stop attacking her. Which I think counts as a surrender. I shouldn’t take as much satisfaction about that as I do. And really, that last line about “the better person” wasn’t necessary, but it made me feel a lot better.  

And so, if you’ve made it this far, than you are either entertained, horrified, or bored, because this is just a ranty, venty, self-absorbed blog entry about some stupid family bullshit. I really hate this woman so much, and I wish I didn’t. This morning, though, reminded me how much I’m not missing. And while I finally got to be as vicious as I wanted to be to her (without using gender-specific insults), there is one issue related to the above, though, with which I’m struggling. Do I take the part of the e-mail exchange where she says “I will talk to dad and he will be sulky at my wedding because he tried to force a reconciliation between two people who will never be able to have a conversation” and somehow share it with my parents?  

Yeah, I didn’t think so. 

Civility

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I want to get something off of my chest: I don’t believe that state or the federal government should recognize gay marriage. I don’t believe that state or the federal government should recognize straight marriage either. Marriage is a religious institution and should be handled only by churches, synagogues, mosques, covens, what have you, in accordance with the First Amendment. 

What government needs to do is institute a system of civil unions, which are contracts that carry all the health, financial, housing, insurance, and child-rearing benefits of what we currently call marriage. If your church won’t marry you, find a new church. If you are repulsed by your church marrying a man and man or woman and woman, find a new church. Congress, the Supreme Court, and the president have no business defining how we the people express our love for each other. It does, however, have business in codifying secular agreements between two people, regardless of their gender. This is equality. 

This way, the State has no say in how people interpret the Bible, Torah, Koran, Big Book O’ Witchcraft, etc., and can’t be penalized for their beliefs, and, at the same time, religion can’t be used as an argument against these unions either, thus confining them to secular arguments—many of which are based on junk science. 

My idea, I realize, isn’t perfect, because I barely know what I’m talking about. 

On the Subject of Today’s Shooting

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I don’t want to get shot dead, at random, in a parking lot, or at a movie theater, or in church, or in a mall, or at a school, or anywhere for that matter, by someone who just wants to shoot bullets at a lot of people for reasons that have nothing at all to do with me. Off the top of my head, I can think of more than two dozen people who felt this EXACT way when they woke up this morning. 

And the funny thing is, it doesn’t matter whether or not I’m a gun owner*, or whether or not I have a concealed-carry permit** what my stance is on gun control***; if a mass shooter decides to open fire on a place where I happen to be, it means that he or she acquired a gun and used it. It doesn’t matter how it was acquired, or what the laws were. It just means that someone got a gun and fired it a lot. 

This scares the shit out of me. 

* I am. 

** I do. 

*** I’m not telling. 

Who Watches the Patrons of the Arts?

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I highly doubt any artists are going to agree with me on this, but I don’t think for one minute that Before Watchmen is the worst thing ever, nor do I think that anyone is actually getting screwed by it. 

Full disclosure: I am an artist who co-created a comic book that, to this day, I receive no credit for. I am currently doing some work-for-hire cartooning, using a character I co-created for a marketing company that periodically thanks me for the drawings, but owns every single one of them. The folks involved in the former are ethically justified in blowing me off (despite my feelings being really hurt by their behavior, words, and attitudes); and the latter is doing me a huge, unnecessary act of kindness with their behavior, words, and attitudes. 

Two things set me off about this topic today. The first was some stupid hyperbolic rant on the Internet. 

The second is that the marketing company I work for has informed me that they’re going to institute a huge change of direction for their brand. They’re asking for alterations to the character that I may not be able to pull off. And, that being the case, an option they may have to take is to replace me. This would make me [understatement in 3 … 2 … 1 …]very, very sad[end understatement]. If they did have to replace me, they are under no obligation to utter my name, ever again, even though I breathed life into this guy and am in no small part responsible for their blog’s success.  

And here’s something that might surprise you to hear me say: I don’t have a problem with that. Yes, it would piss me off a little, but ultimately they’re not wrong. Because PPC Hero is the property of Hanapin Marketing. Period. 

Likewise, Spider-Man is Marvel Comics’ property. The Avengers are the property of Disney/Marvel. Superman is DC Comics’ property. These characters are commodities that have been traded for money. Stan Lee, Steve Ditko, Jack Kirby, Joe Siegel, and Jerry Schuster brought with them to the table amazing creativity and, especially in the case of Jack Kirby, a willingness to draw and draw and draw.* And then, they sold the fruits of their labor to corporations and publishers. 

Now, Jack Kirby is to Babe Ruth resurrected as super-serum-juiced cyber-deity as I am to the Pee-Wee League player consigned to right field where he can’t do any damage; but we’re both baseball. More accurately, we’re both artisans. Hell, I put the same amount of concentration, skill, and dedication into editing as I do into PPC Hero or the occasional logo design or portrait that I also get paid for. Because they’re jobs. The only thing I’m owed for these jobs is the money the client and I agreed to. 

If we’re talking about giving work-for-hire artists credit where credit is due, then where’s the demand for recognition for the musicians who wrote and performed that goddamned ad jingle or TV theme you can’t shake from your head? Where’s the cries for justice for the designer of that car you drive? Come to think of it, who created the original featureless pants-or-dress-wearing people who tell you which restroom to use? 

Who developed the iconic font that is as much a part of Watchmen as Dr. Manhattan’s penis? Is he or she getting residuals? Just curious. 

And this brings me back to Sorcerer Alan Moore of the Holy Gnostic Order of the Wooly Hill People. 

When Watchmen was published, DC (allegedly) made a promise to Moore that it would not use the characters again. Dan Didio is breaking that promise. And I say, “So?” DC paid Moore. He cashed the checks. They don’t owe him anything else. He wants to pitch a fit and tear up the checks that Warner Brothers sends him for the botched movie adaptations made of his work, that only means more money for their shareholders. And most importantly, Alan Moore worked for DC; DC doesn’t work for Alan Moore. 

Look, as much as I hate that pompous fuck-bag, I won’t deny the amount of skill he put into his original, sprung-from-his-mind creations like From Hell (with the help, of course, of countless Jack the Ripper researchers), or Swamp Thing (with the help of Len Wein and Bernie Wrightson, of course), or The League of Extraordinary Gentleman (with the help of Arthur Conan Doyle, H.G. Wells, Bram Stoker, Jules Verne, et al), or … 

Okay, fine. That’s hardly fair. It’s not like he’s pretending to have made up the Whitechapel Murders or Masonry or these awesome literary figures. But he and Dave Gibbons did make up the Watchmen … Except they didn’t. The names and certain details have been changed, but the characters are from Carlton Comics. This is hardly news, by the way, so don’t think I’m trying to shock my reader with this clever information or anything. On the other hand, I’m still waiting for the Bearded One on to go on one of his self-righteous screeds on how much Steve Ditko deserves credit/apologies for how Moore’s paranoid, trench-coat-fedora-and-full-face-mask-wearing detective, Rorsach kind of tarnished the artistic intentions of Ditko’s paranoid, trench-coat-fedora-and-full-face-mask-wearing detective, the Question, with the former’s homophobic racist sociopathology.**  

In The Killing Joke, the Joker shoots Batgirl through the spine and strips her naked so he can torture her father, Commissioner Gordon, who is also stripped naked after having been beaten. The conclusion of this involves the Joker telling Batman a joke and both of them laughing their asses off, while ambulances haul off the broken minds and bodies of the Gordons. (Hilarious.) I don’t recall Moore asking the permission of Bill Finger or Bob Kane (or, in the case of Batgirl, Sheldon Moldoff) to do this to his characters. Hell, in League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, Mr. Hyde rapes the Invisible Man to death. I throw up in my mouth every time I think about it (twice, because Robert Louis Stevenson isn’t around to join in). And then there’s Lost Girls … I wonder what L. Frank Baum thinks about what Dorothy Gale is up to these days. 

So, try as I might, I don’t give a flying fuck about Moore and his disgust and his lectures on how to respect the works people like him have expended so much energy on. I will not, for one minute, disparage the amount of talent and skill and literature he has brought to my favorite entertainment medium. As loathe as I am to admit it, he is kind of a genius. His pedestal and soapbox are still, however, built on the backs of Steve Ditko and H.G. Wells and Bill Finger and those I mentioned above, as well as those I haven’t even thought of. Also, it’s in a glass house.  

Before Watchmen is a bad idea. Really, the only thing that it has going for it, businesswise, is the controversy (thanks, Moore and all of his followers!). Although … J.M. Straczynski. Len Wein. Adam Hughes. J.G. Jones. Darwyn Cooke. Amanda “leave that Palmiotti schmuck and make art with Jeremiah Murphy until the end of time” Conner. Hm. 

I’ll let Dave Gibbons, co-creator of the Watchmen, show us out: “May these new additions have the success they desire.” 

* Don’t, for one minute, think that I am not utterly appalled by the way these writers and artists, except for maybe Stan Lee, have been treated over the years. National Allied Publishers and Warner Brothers deserve a special room in hell for what they did to Siegel and Schuster, who invented the modern superhero. I respect that a contract is a contract, but some things are just morally wrong. 

** If such a credit/apology exists, I would love to see it so I can mark this off of my list of grievances. 

A Few Thoughts on the Oldest Profession

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Yesterday, I came across a photo of this bumper sticker: 
 

Taken aback, I posted a link to it on my Facebook wall while making sure to specify that this does not reflect the views of all conservatives. I got quite a few responses, which can be summed up by the following comment: “WHAT?!”  

Inevitably, as it is an issue on the minds of many, someone made an off-topic remark about how the Right is trying to restrict women’s liberties. A friend of mine (the post has since been taken down for mysterious reasons, meaning this person now exists anonymously) replied: “As for the reproductive ‘rights’ thing, do you mean women’s ‘right’ to have me pay for them to have sex…and not with me?”  

I, in no way, expect to change the mind of the person who wrote this. I did, however, in the interest of civility, send him a private message (which lacked the reflexively tempting snide comment about him having to pay for sex): “Um, so what you wrote about ‘women’s “rights”‘ on my now-removed post was kind of disgusting, the implication being that my wife and the vast majority of my female friends and family are prostitutes.’ 

The thing is, people really feel this way, and it kind of makes me want to throw up. So, let me explain how this works, and I will leave out the parts about the health of women with conditions like polycystic ovary syndrome so I can focus on the real issue, which is sex. And, because I don’t want people rolling their eyes at me, I will also leave out the word Viagra, despite its pertinence here. 

The word I won’t leave out is vasectomy. I have had a vasectomy. My insurance paid for it. My insurance is Federal Blue Cross, which means it is covered by the taxpayers. I had a vasectomy because I have no desire to impregnate anyone. By this logic, taxpayers are paying for me to have non-reproductive intercourse. Until the same pious men (and, occasionally, women) decry the use of private and public insurance funds to cover such a procedure, then I will not take seriously their claims of religious freedoms. 

Besides, what’s to stop those of certain religious convictions from going to a private insurance company that did refuse to cover contraception? Instead, they want government to do that work so they don’t have to. Just them, of course. Religious freedom and all. 

But let’s leave out the word hypocrisy here, because, as an arbiter of morality like Newt Gingrich have demonstrated, or as craven opportunists like the pro-choice-when-it-suited-his-political-ambitions Willard Mitt Romney has demonstrated, or as all of the people who support and believe them while trumpeting values have demonstrated, they don’t give the slightest shit about hypocrisy.  

Let’s focus on the sex, and why it matters. People like to have sex, because it’s fun. There is absolutely no correlation between crime and pre-marital sex. There is no correlation between self-identified Christian believers and pre-marital sex either. Regardless, those are the beliefs and values of one portion of one religion. Why should I do as I am told by someone who follows a different set of laws and commandments—laws and commandments that have nothing to do with the country in which I am a citizen? 

Let’s focus on the money, which is what the argument comes down to. The poster above feels that private, employer-based insurance should not have to cover the birth-control pill, because that is tantamount to him purchasing the pill (Never mind that the person who wants to purchase birth control is paying premiums for such a service). Those of this mindset say that anyone whose birth control is not covered by an insurance company can just find an insurance company that does cover birth control. Never mind that the out-of-pocket costs of birth control and private insurance are prohibitive, something I can tell you from experience.  

If companies feel that there is money to be made covering birth control, they will cover it. This logic justified segregation, under which no place that refused service to African Americans ever suffered businesswise. It took the federal government to correct that. 

Under this logic, there is nothing to stop any private insurer from not covering my Attention-Deficit-Disorder medication if they don’t believe it exists. And many don’t. There is nothing to stop a Scientologist-run insurance company to deny me coverage for my psychiatric medication, without which I may have literally killed myself long ago. There is nothing to stop a blood transfusion being paid out-of-pocket if the owner of your insurance company is a Jehovah’s Witness. 

For those of the religious/business freedom mindset, is this okay? If you don’t say yes, then your contraception bullshit is meaningless. 

In the South, after the Civil War, came the concept of the poll tax. The poll tax did not technically discriminate against African Americans. What it did was charge a fee to anyone who went to vote. See? Not racist. This, of course, eliminated newly emancipated slaves who had no money to begin with from having a say in their own government. But there were many poor people in the South of all colors. See? Not racist. To help out the poor, an exemption was made for those whose grandfathers could vote. The exemption didn’t specify that the grandfather had to be white—it just said they had to be your grandfather. See? Not racist. If your grandfather was actually a slave, well, that has nothing to do with race as it does with bad timing. 

I wonder why I don’t have to pay for my vas deferens to be cauterized. Is this a kind of Grandfather Clause (or, in my case, a Smolderingly-Attractive-and-Virile Young-Man Clause) because it was a one-time thing? Or should all men in the future be denied this as well, because of bad timing? 

In conclusion, tell me, do you really believe that insurance coverage for birth control medication is the same thing as prostitution? Do you really believe that every single woman I know who has used hormonal contraception, like most of the women in my life—and likely yours—are whores? I don’t even know what to say to that. 

Insane in the Membrane

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My therapist advises me against me using the term “mentally ill” to describe myself. He prefers that I say “I have a mental illness.” I understand his logic and intentions—he doesn’t want my identity to be defined by something about me that is broken. However, I can’t disagree more.  

Your teenage years are when you start to forge your identity and become the person you’ll be*. And it was then that I became two people. On one hand, I was a quirky, soulful, artistic, sensitive, and intense guy named Jeremiah. On the other hand, I was a creative, energetic, charming, and very, very confident guy named Jeremiah. The first Jeremiah hated himself with a searing passion, while the second Jeremiah didn’t give a shit about anybody other himself. I was the angel and the devil on my own shoulders, wondering how the other could be so pathetic/such a douchebag. 

And that begged the question, what the hell is wrong with me?  

Lately, I’ve been a big fan of a (mostly) weekly podcast called “Sex and Other Human Activities.” One of the hosts, Marcus Parks, said this about being how bipolar disorder works: “Whenever you’re depressive, you let your life fall apart. Whenever you’re manic, you actively destroy it. It’s a dangerous thing to fuck with.” 

Lots of people talk about the stigma of mental illness. When I hear it described that way, I imagine frightened crowds with pitchforks, torches, and legislation who want to lock up the crazies, or at the very least, not invite them to parties. Maybe it’s because I’ve lived a third of my life in the twenty-first century, but I’ve never seen this. What I’ve seen is a lot of confusion. 

For starters, there aren’t a whole lot of actual “crazy” people. The mentally ill that most expect to see are muttering to themselves about government conspiracies, telling the voices in their heads to shut up, murdering people in cold blood (maybe with a giggle), or—if Hollywood can be believed—helping the normal folks see the world through exciting new eyes.  

That’s the biggest reason those like me can feel isolated. We look just like everyone else. We act just like everyone else. It’s assumed, then, that we function just like everybody else. After all, everyone feels down sometimes, so why can’t I cope? Everybody has mood swings, so what’s the big deal about mine? I seemed fine yesterday, so why not remember that? Life is hard; everybody knows that. Depression, Attention-Deficit Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, Borderline Personality Disorder, and even Asperger’s Syndrome are just words coined by those don’t want to own up to being assholes; they’re excuses people make because they’re too lazy to suck it up. 

I’ve spent a lot of my life believing all of this. In fact, I can’t shake the residual feeling that maybe I am just a lazy asshole. This is easy thought to have, both for me and for those around me, especially because I’m doing really well right now. I didn’t just “snap out of it,” though. I invest a lot of time and money and effort to be this way, and if I want to stay here, I can’t forget that, not even for a minute. 

As far as being an asshole is concerned, manic-depression is an explanation, not an excuse. What’s the difference? Perhaps getting drunk will give us some perspective. A lot of alcohol can give us a lot of confidence, but it can also take away some of our empathy. We do and say a lot of things that would not be said and done otherwise. Some of it is pretty shitty. And if we drink enough, we may not even remember it. These things, however, get done and said by us, and there’s no making them go away. If we get into a fight, or worse, run someone over with our car, it’s our sober ass going to jail. No one ever argues otherwise. Some people can hold their liquor, and some people can’t. Those of us that can’t have a responsibility to control ourselves, even though it can be incredibly difficult. 

So there’s that. As far as coping with life, I know full well that we all have it tough. Maybe I would be happier if I just counted my blessings. I want to. God, I want to. But I can’t. I am physically unable to … Well, that’s not entirely accurate. Sometimes I’m able to. Sometimes I’m not. Day to day, I don’t know what to expect. 

For example, I got mugged at gunpoint once, and for the duration, I thought I was going to die. When it was over, I walked home, called the police, called my girlfriend, had a cigarette, and shrugged off the money I’d lost as a small price to pay for not getting shot. On the other hand, I once watched a braindead-but-awesome action movie I’d seen a thousand times wherein a peripheral character loses his job and his home and dies alone on the streets. I spent weeks full of dread, convinced that this was my ultimate fate. I don’t really have any say in what it’s going to be. 

It goes like this: imagine you’re walking on a patch of ice. Strolling along at an even keel, there are no problems. Folks around you are walking at their own pace. The sun is shining and the birds are singing (shivering, but singing). Unexpectedly, you slip. You’re not sure why—maybe your mind wandered, maybe you caught your foot on a twig or a rock or something, or maybe the wind knocked you off balance. Regardless, you’re lying on your ass on the slick ice, bruised, and every attempt you make at getting back to your feet results in you falling down again. When you finally do get up, the panic fades, and you’re left with embarrassment, wondering why it is that you’re the only one who fell while everyone else can stumble without toppling over. (Answer: everyone is wearing cleats, and yours came out of the box defective.) 

And so now, even though I’m on a mood stabilizer and am exercising like a fiend and keeping up with regular counseling, and even though I feel better and younger than I ever have in my life, I am utterly terrified of feeling. I can’t trust my heart, because it has, in the past, knocked me down onto the ice. It doesn’t look like it, but trust me, it’s a handicap. Like a diabetic, I need take medicine and closely monitor myself if I want to function. Does that make me superior to those who don’t have to work as hard to get out of bed some days? Hell no.  

I can tell you this, though, I got off better than some. Some don’t respond to treatment at all. Some don’t even have the option to get help. Some people spend their whole lives (or, like me, most of it) not knowing that this is a problem with chemistry, not character. I’m lucky; I have insurance, a stubborn wife, and (after a fashion) a good, personally invested psychiatrist who wants to see me working properly. 

It’s not fair that I’m this way—in fact, it really sucks. I don’t know any other way to be. I just am. I’m mentally ill, with all that entails.  

And I’m doing okay. 

*I used the word start for a reason, Argumenty Pants (you know who you are)