The Point of the Story

Your #1 Source of Unsolicited Life Advice

Category: My Own Damn Freud (Page 3 of 6)

Who needs to pay a psycho therapist when you can do it yourself! Paying for a shrink? To quote Gellieman: Pfffffft!

Now That’s What I Call A Second Act!

15 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
6 Min Read

And now…your fun and cheeky conclusion to Zen Death Meditation!

Last time we talked, I was sharing with you the joys of contemplating my own death in light of what I was convinced would be an impending positive COVID test. If you haven’t already read And Now…Your Moment Of Zen Death Meditation, take a quick break and catch up–if nothing else, I won’t have to re-explain what the heck Maranasati is. But, given that your time is indubitably precious, I offer to you a brief summary.

In reverse chronological order, here are the two main conclusions I came to during that fateful COVID-induced Maranasati session:

Death may not be the end of my time on Earth…

and:

I am most definitely not ready to die…

Scratch that last thought–what I really should say is that I’m not ready to stop taking care of my family.1This makes more sense if you have read the Death Zen Mediation post already. But I’ll stop beating a dead horse now, I suppose… Death be damned.

In fact, I started to be downright belligerent about the matter: if I die, I’m going to simply refuse to “move on to the light” or whatever other long-term options supposedly await all the Bougie dead folk. All y’all can enjoy your shuffleboard in the sky or what-have-you; I got business left to tend to here in this realm, and I plan on keeping one foot firmly planted in this world.

First things first: I got some, um, “marital” duties that need to be fulfilled.

With all due respect to my overly-competent wife, she would be lost trying to handle the family finances in my absence (she may bring home the bacon, but I’m the only one who knows how to fry it up just right). I’m not kidding one bit: this is the very first thing I started fretting about when imagining my death.

Well, guess what? According to all those ghost-hunting shows your grandma watches, I should be able to manipulate most electronic devices. And guess what is done almost purely via electronics? Our finances.

Okay…so things are starting to look up. I may not necessarily have to leave my loved ones completely high and dry upon my departure.

Now, what else could I conceivably do on the Other Side?

You know…my employer wouldn’t really need to know that I’m legally deceased, would they? I’ve been working remotely for the last 8 months, and I’m honestly not seeing any hard and fast reason I couldn’t keep fulfilling my job duties from the grave. Just keep depositing those paychecks, baby, and I’ll keep on delivering those deliverables!2Web-based passive-income businesses (such as The Prissy Pet Project are another great candidate for providing longer-term financial security.

At that point in my thought adventure I realized, “Holy sh*t, for real what all could I do were I to take up a ghosting gig?” The fact that this whole crazy concept may not be entirely impossible was really getting me pumped about the prospect of dying. Oh, the places I could go!

Of course, “the places I could go” might be limited by whatever The Rules are–and I have no ----- clue what those are–so I technically have to include the disclaimer that the following claims have not been evaluated by the Food & Drug Administration, and should in no way be construed as a guarantee of what one might be able to do with their Afterlife. I’m just letting my imagination run wild here, folks.

Now without further ado, here is a sampling of things I might attempt to do if/when I arrive in the In-Between:3Alas, though, since I’m stuck with a Second Place Survivor’s medal–aka a negative COVID test result–and I don’t know if I’ll get to actually try out any of these theories any time soon, for now all these ideas will have to suffice as fodder for short stories, mini novellas, TV show premises, and/or movie scripts.

  • Do you know what an “incubus” is? I’ve heard the term, but am curious to find out what all the hub-bub is about.
  • I figure being a “guardian angel” to my daughters would keep me plenty busy. Especially when they’re of dating age. Guess who has 4 thumbs and getting chaperoned on every date until they’re engaged?!? Also, guess who has 4 thumbs and will never have to worry about being sexually assaulted?!? That’s right, these gals.4Images and names have been redacted to protect the privacy of minors, but you may know them as The Elder and The Younger. Why? Because their Ghost Dad will strangle anyone who has not obtained proper consent with their own limp ----- . Consider yourself duly warned.
  • I also plan on doing all the other “normal” dad things I already do. Critical to this plan is finding a way to have long-ass conversations, though. Using a Ouija board to communicate with the girls would never get the job done on account of how ----- tedious my verbosity would be one letter at a time.
  • Oh, you thought this blog was going to die with me, eh? That’s cute. You can rest assured that resting in peace won’t stop me from sharing all my wonderful philosophical thoughts on life (and death).
  • Well, if ghosts have unfettered internet access… I figure I would take advantage of having plenty of time5Interestingly, there is reason to believe that the dead have shit to do, including a very active social calendar. See: “Champ” from Spooked Podcast (https://bit.ly/3bfT6PJ — Luminary subscription required). to take online courses. I’ve been thinking about picking up a few more programming languages and perhaps an MBA from Strayer University…
  • Hacking could also be another delightful new hobby. It should be a snap to steal people’s passwords just by peeking over their shoulders! No doubt I would use this to clandestinely advance my radical political causes.
  • Speaking of politics, could I be a political assassin? At first I thought about being your run-of-the-mill assassin whose end game is the death of the target. But then I realized it would be much more entertaining to ----- with the targets instead. For example, I’m thinking of lightly choking them while they are publicly speaking so that their health and/or mental well-being is called into question. I’ll also have to look into whether straight-up possession might be an option. In that case, my first order of business would be to troll prominent Republicans by making them randomly blurt out “Black Lives Matter!” on the record. Oh, the horror!

Of all the fantastic ideas I’ve had, I think my favorite scheme is “Scientist On The Other Side.” This is exactly as it sounds like. I would be making observations like crazy, coupled with designing basic, yet informative experiments.

Is gravity the same there as it is here? Is gravity even a thing?

I’ve heard that ghosts often complain of being cold. What’s up with that? Where does that fit into the basic laws of thermodynamics?

What are the limitations of the forces that we dead folk can instigate in the land of the living? And where does that energy come from? Also: how does living human fear seem to translate into energy in the non-living domain?

What is it about salt that distorts the fabric of the Other Dimensions? I suspect that its basic crystalline structure and associated eigenfrequencies come into play some how…but how?

As you can see, I’m a physicist, and I have a few questions…

My fantasy here, though, hinges on having a living accomplice to whom I can channel all my findings. Now, I’ve already started recruiting for this, if you were curious, but I’m interested if you’re interested, ya know?

Okay, so to be clearer about what I want to do here: I want to establish an entirely new branch of science, one that takes the metaphysical and makes it physical, and takes the paranormal and makes it normal.

Honestly, I’m a scientist to my core, and frankly, I’m not buying this “the Devil’s running around doing all this crazy shit to test your faith” hand-waving voo-doo bullshit. There’s got to be rules, and I wager that they can be reconciled with our current understanding of science. Or, better yet, blow the modern paradigms away the same way Relativity and Quantum Mechanics did. I suppose in that case, they would have no choice to break the rules and award me the Nobel Prize posthumously…

I chuckle heartily at the idea of struggling to be a mediocre scientist in life, only to turn out to be a trailblazing, Earth-shattering scientist in death. Now that’s what I call a Second Act, my friends!

And consider this outside-the-pine-death-box thought, will ya: what a plot twist would that be if I’ve anxiously worried my days away, wondering if I will ever really do anything meaningful with my life…but never realizing that it was what I would do with my death that would make me bigger than Einstein!6And finally bringing long-overdue glory and renown my sleepy l’il hometown of Rolla, Kansas!

Now you can see why that negative COVID test was so disappointing–I got me some BIG plans for my death/afterlife! But you know what? My overly-enthusiastic attitude is not deterred one bit.

Let’s see…how do I put this?

Content created on: 6/7 & 13 November 2020 (Fri/Sat/Fri)

Footnotes & References:[+]

And Now, Your Moment Of Zen Death Meditation

8 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

What do you do with your life when Plans A-F fail?

Why, you move on Plans G-H-O-S-T, of course…

“Maranasati,eh?” I thought to myself. “Now I can feel fancy af next time I decide to deeply contemplate my own death. Lat-lat-lah!”

Yes, it’s true. Over the last year or so, on multiple occasions, I have found myself reflecting on my own mortality and the possibility that I might have to deal with it much sooner than I had ever expected. Between being on the cusp of middle age, and you know, 2020 and all, there has been so many exciting exit options for me lately!

Enlarged organs the size of cantaloupes!1See: No Shit Sherlock, Act III. Losing too much weight before the Apocalypse!2See: Death By Hangnail/Pants Epidemic. Leading the Woefully Unarmed Resistance!3Well, I never got around to writing this blog post, but FWIW, it was going to be pithily entitled “This Is Not The Michael W. Smith Reference You’re Looking For.” The wit of that title would have epically gone over everyone’s heads, I’m guessing. The 21st Century Plague!4See: The rest of this blog post.

(On the bright side, I have yet to envision how the 2020 Election cycle will possibly take me out, but hey, the night is still young…)

Now, you might be tempted to brand such thought patterns as “creepy” or “morbid,” but thanks to my new friend Maranasati, I can legit argue that I am instead “enlightened” and/or “healthy-minded.”

And if you can’t tell, I just learned the term “Maranasati” in the last few days, and am indubitably5Yes, please watch this YouTube clips so you get the friggin’ cultural reference! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MUUJSj3AzKo going to take the opportunity to drop it into casual conversation every chance I get. Fortuitously, though, it turns out that it is eerily relevant for the topic at hand.

I came across the concept of Maranasati–aka Zen Death Meditation–recently when reading up on my go-to stress reliever, Qi Gong. In short, it is the idea of taking all the crazy sh*t going on around you, and putting it in perspective by taking time to think about the nature of death–yours and of the ones you love (including–wait for it–your beloved pets). It’s a rather interesting idea, and you can read a much better exposition on it here.6Official reference: https://flowingzen.com/21294/zen-death-meditation-maranasati/

The point is, now I don’t have to feel so bad if I happen to get you thinking about your death after reading this After-Life themed post. Come, follow me down this path. If you dare…

This time, I knew it wasn’t just another false alarm. The symptoms were too real; too obvious. Sure, I could still smell, but I was pretty sure I had COVID. And, knowing my luck,7See Touched By An Angel and it’s companion article, My Time To Go. it was going to take me out just short of my 40th birthday.

I spent the 35 minute commute to my nearest available COVID testing site, thinking my deathly thoughts and listening to one of my guiltier pleasures in life, the Real Ghost Stories Online podcast. And the results were…not what I expected.

Oh–sorry, I didn’t mean the results of the COVID test. That? That actually came back negative (and I’ve never been so disappointed in my life!). What I was really referring to was the results of what happened when I followed the black rabbit down the rabbit hole.

Now, where to begin…

My COVID Commute didn’t start too well, seeing as how my very active imagination was running amok, and I found myself overwhelmed with the thought of possibly dying.

But I wasn’t particularly sad for myself, though. You see, one thing I’ve realized through all of my impromptu Maranasati sessions is that I’m not necessarily afraid of death. Instead, its the thought of leaving behind the ones I love to carry on without me–that’s what scares the ----- out of me.

My kids. My wife. My mom.

If I can’t take care of them, then I have failed at the one meaningful job I have had in this lifetime. Sure, I have a bit of life insurance that would help supplement the Boss Lady’s healthy salary. But other than that, I wouldn’t be leaving behind much in place to continue providing for them.

And so down that logical rabbit hole I went:

If I die, I can’t take care of my family.

If I can’t take care of my family, I have failed in life.

I don’t want to fail in life…oh, wait. I get it now…

I am most definitely not ready to die.

Well, poop. That doesn’t seem like a very Zen-like conclusion to me. I’m starting to suspect that I may not be Maranasati-ing it up right…

Meanwhile, my ghost stories podcast happened to be filling my precious little head with some interesting ideas. The particular episode that I happened to be enjoying throughout all of this was about a guy’s uncle who died unexpectedly in his thirties, but apparently liked to still hang out with the family and pull pranks on them. It killed me when I heard his favorite way to get their attention would be to make their smart phones play the last video of him playing with his band in concert. You can’t be ambiguous about who it is that’s doing the haunting, I guess. At least if you truly love those you’re haunting, right?

Now, the idea of something like this was not a new thought to me, and this episode just served to remind me of something that had already been mulling in the back of my mind for awhile.

Well, I don’t know how to put this delicately, but…I don’t know jack squat about what happens when one dies. Is it a binary divine decision between Heaven or Hell? Is it absolute nothingness? Is it the last thought one has before death that persists after that final breath?

I have believed various flavors of some of these theories throughout my life, sure, but I can’t say I have ever known the answer. In fact, a key foundation of my worldview is no matter how well I think I understand something, my understanding will be, at best, incomplete.8I believe I first discussed this (somewhat clumsily) in Surfboard Waxes Philosophical.

But here’s the deal: I have listened to a lot of people’s personal experiences,9Via 2 podcasts in particular: http://www.realghoststoriesonline.com/ and https://www.wnycstudios.org/podcasts/spooked. and whether I like it or not, there’s vastly more anecdotal10While I stress that this is anecdotal evidence, if you collect enough data points, you start to get valid scientific-method-level evidence. evidence of a ghost realm than there is of a heaven. Not to exclude the whole concept of there being a heaven; what I’m really trying to say is that I’m starting to strongly suspect that there might be something in between–and it looks nothing really like your traditional imaginatings of “purgatory.”

Well, that’s an interesting thought.

Death may not be the end of my time on Earth...

I’ll leave you now to mull over these two main trains of thought (“I am most definitely not ready to die” and “death may not be the end of my time on Earth“). I’m curious where your mind might wander off to with those to ideas in hand. Think it over will you?

Come back next week, and we’ll compare notes. Trust me. It will be a lot more fun than you might expect.

I don’t want to get too cocky here, but I’m thinking I might just make you a fan of Zen Death Meditation yet…

Content created on: 6/7 November 2020 (Fri/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Oh, To Be A Functioning Adult Human Being Again

5 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

I have a question for all you fellows1And you females too who have ignored the patriarchal “rule” that you couldn’t ask somebody out. out there. Have you ever been a nervous wreck from trying to muster up the courage to ask a young lady out? You’re equal parts scared shitless she will say no, and just as scared shitless she will say yes. And although you’re anxious in either scenario, you just need to know either way so you can get on with your life.

Anyone? Anyone? Show of hands? Surely I’m not the only one to have endured this quintessential male-of-the-species experience.2Again, pardon the patriarchal society that way too many people find themselves a part of. Not trying to reinforce it here or anything

Now, let’s assume that you had prepared yourself for if she were to say ‘yes.’ Hedging your bets, though, you also steeled your emotions and your mind if she were to say ‘no.’ You had your bases covered either way, and you were finally ready to finally ask her out and get some dang resolution in your life.

You took the plunge, you pulled the trigger, you popped the question. There was no turning back after that.

And then…

And then she said ‘maybe.’

Oops! You prepared yourself for either heaven or hell, but you forgot about the possibility of getting stuck indefinitely between the two. Welcome to purgatory my friend…

Purgatory. Yup, that’s a pretty accurate description of how I’m feeling right now, less than two days past the 2020 Election, right in the middle of a clearer picture of the results starting to take shape.

Are we as a country on the verge of falling into the-bad-kind-of-Socialism?3You know, the-good-kind-of-Socialism might be an option too… Or are we on the precipice of plunging into the deep end of tribalism overseen by an authoritarian government? Whatever your darkest vision of the future of America may be, it seemed like it was on the ballot in this wonderful, wonderful year of 2020.

And maybe you’re like me, trying to figure out what my future with the Land of Lady Liberty looks like. Are you, too, wondering if you and America have compatible enough values to last for the long haul? You know “Is this somebody you can see yourself raising kids with?” and all.

I don’t know about you, but I feel like I had finally summoned the courage to ask those big questions of her, and I guess I had just assumed that she was ready to give a definitive answer.

Silly me!

Have I learned nothing from the experiences of my youth? Sometimes a person4Or a person-like entity in an analogy, as the case may be here. just needs time and space to make up their minds and figure out who they really are.

Oh, it’s not the answer I wanted at all. I desperately need to be able to move on with my life.

But, nooooooo. Instead of resolution, what the ----- do I get instead? At least 2-4 more years of suspense. Just super.

You may be surprised to learn that all I really wanted to do here was have a heartfelt conversation about the struggle of trying to be a functional human amidst all of this. I mean, I barely found the will to sit down and write about anything at all today, so I’m taking this as a victory.

If things aren’t easy for you in the middle of this superb-a-licious shit-show in which we all find ourselves, I just want you to know you’re not alone. I truly hope you’re handling it better than me, but if you’re not, that’s okay.

Go outside and get some fresh air. Hug your kids and/or pets. Meditate. Pray. Do the dishes. Finally put new strings on your classical guitar, despite how overly-complicated of a task they make it. Take a break from the world and (gasp!) do some work. Fold some laundry.

The important thing is that you keep putting one foot in front of the other and keep moving forward…and on down to the passport office. It’s not too late to find a more suitable soul mate–if you know what I mean.

Just sayin’…

Content created on: 5 November 2020 (Thursday)

My Dumb, Crummy Destiny: Accusing Chestnuts Of Being Lazy

1 November 2020 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

Few people realize are even aware of it when they start heading down the path to becoming “Evil.”

I’ll just say this: beware if you find yourself making outrageous claims like “I invented cake pops…”

Tastebud bandit. Olfactory outlaw. Textural terrorist. Mouthfeel mobster. Call me what you want, but it when it comes to food, there’s one thing you should know about me: I don’t give a single solitary ----- about all y’all’s arbitrary ‘rules.’

I even once had a teacher1”…and Ms. Hansen was her name-o!” accuse me of “murdering a baked potato.” Honestly, though, I would argue that smothering a tuber in ketchup and then drowning it in even more catsup is halfway normal. I mean, hello?!? French fries, much?

Biscuit, please!

In college, I would get many a strange look for my habit of eating a banana with a packet of Miracle Whip in class. Growing up, my dad’s signature fruit salad featured apples, bananas, raisins, and Miracle Whip. I was just deconstructing what I already knew to be a palate-pleaser. While haters be busy talking smack, I be busy smacking my lips on a tasty-ass2And, in retrospect, slightly homoerotic. snack.

You get the idea: my jaw chews to the beat of its own drummer, and I’m…weirdly passive-aggressive about it?

Speaking of college, hands-down the best part of my university experience was access to communal desserts in the cafeteria. When everybody else was busy claiming the cake pan was 100% empty like a bunch of fools, I, the eternal optimist,3See also: Fiddy Percent. would be busy piling my plate high with a mound of 100% ----- delicious mixture of frosting and crumbs.

It wasn’t long before I was obsessed with shamelessly collecting cake crumbs like a bona fide addict. At weddings, I was infamous for always requesting that the cake servers scrape their cake knives off on a designated plate that I would later collect and consume with the greatest of gustos.

I mean, have you I ever even had a ball of that super-moist layer of wedding cake that always sticks to the platter? It’s flippin’ mind-blowing–and that’s even before you add that crack-laced wedding cake frosting!

I think I could laud the praises of CrumbBalls (TM) for hours–I mean, not to #HumbleBrag too hard, but they’re a pure palatial revelation. And, yes, I’m pretty dang proud of myself for having the guts to think outside the cake mix box, if you haven’t noticed already.

I must say though, the one downside is that once you’ve experienced cake this way, boring old cake just doesn’t cut it any more.

Fortunately for me though, through the sage life wisdom one can only acquire in their 20s, I eventually realized that I could approximate the effect by thoroughly smashing a well-frosted piece of regular cake with a fork until it was a yummy ball of crumby goodness. I even once opined to the Boss Lady…

Me: “This is genius! If we can find a way to market this we could be so ----- rich!”

BLM: “Um…I think Starbuck’s may have beat you to the punch…”

Me:4https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/all-your-base-are-belong-to-us

Someone has set us up the gut bomb.

BLM: “Yeah, isn’t that pretty much what a cake pop is?”

Me: “Noooooooooooooooo!”

*Does quick internet research*5References: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cake_pop , https://www.bakerella.com/page/13/?s=cake+balls”No. No. NO. The first digital record of cake pops are from December 2007–I’ve been CrumbBallin'(TM) it up since 1999!”

*Slams laptop lid down* “You know what this means, right?”

BLM: …

Me: “I invented cake pops! Me–me, me me! And I’m getting none of the credit–oh, the injustice!”

Back in 2012 when we lived in Hawai’i, the Boss Lady and I got into the habit of hitting up the local frozen yogurt chain on a regular basis. We were trying to live the pono (healthy) lifestyle and all, so this seemed like a decent dessert option.

In theory, at least.

In practice, I would end up getting the tiniest of dollops of froyo before proceeding to lightly season it with M&M’s, Snickers, Butterfingers, Reeses’ Peanut Butter Cups, gummi worms, and, when available, Nerds. Oh, and by “lightly season” I mean “smother and drown.” Best of intentions, amiright?

I eventually gave up on pretending to be healthy and instead embraced the debauchery that it was. Being ever the witty fellow, I even dubbed my creation the “All-Hallow’s Day Special,” in honor of the beautiful, gluttonous sugar-orgy that the archetypical American kid experiences every November 1st. I know, I know. Clever, right?

Then I saw this on TV a few weeks ago:

What is this, Amateur Hour? Y’all don’t even have gummi worms. Pfffft!

Son of a biscuit...

The point of the story is don’t be that whiny little biscuit who won’t shut the hell up about all the credit they’re not getting. It’s just tiresome to be around, man. And trust me–I’ve had to listen to one of those asshats my entire life6In case it’s not clear, Mother, I’m referring to myself.…

Oh, by the way, here’s those chestnuts I promised you…just promise me you’ll watch to the end for the real, uh, “chestnut”:

“…it’s breathtaking, really. I suggest you try it.”

You’re welcome!

Content created on: 28/29 October 2020 (Weds/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Little Bo Peep Has Lost His…Respect For Mainstream Gender Norms?

29 October 2020 / / 0 Comments
2 Min Read

Let me ask you something: how old were you when you discovered the True Meaning of Halloween?

Hint: It was never really about the candy…

‘Twas Halloween 1985, and I clearly remember being a 4-year-old boy excited to partake in his first “Spook Parade”1Also known as a costume contest. and the other Fall festivities hosted annually in the hallowed halls of Rolla High School.

Yes, I crisply recall seeing my little-boy Batman underwear as my mother changed me into my special outfit in the women’s’ restroom next to the RHS band room.

Ahh, the fond memory of her pulling a long beruffled shirt over my golden curls and past those Batman underwear, and thinking “well, this shirt is…interesting.”

I remember her tying the bonnet around the same little chin that one day, thanks to natural testosterone, would be covered in blonde whiskers.

Oh, how the feel of that toy shepherd’s crook in my future Man-hands2Seinfeld reference! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tuwLFkpk4Lw is forever encoded in the depths of my cranium…

The one thing I don’t remember, however, is the family friend asking my mom with a quizzical look on her face: “Oh, who does this cute little girl belong to?”

No, that particular detail I had to get second-hand from the same mother who, being inspired by my luscious loopy yellow locks, decided to take indecent liberties with a child child’s Halloween costume that year.

Yes, Mother, I remember.

I remember (almost) everything.

And I precisely recollect staring at that strange-yet-familiar little girl in that bathroom mirror, and thinking to myself:

“So this is what the holidays are all about…”

The point of the story is, if you’re not bending your gender at least a wee little bit with your costume this year,3Here but a few examples: Finding Yourself On The Fairy Farm & No Cookies For Kesha (technically the latter is an example of “Halloween in February,” but nevertheless…). then I would argue you aren’t Halloweening right.

And don’t just take my word for it: One out of one mothers whole-heartedly agree.

Right, Mom?

Bonus: In case you don’t know “what the holidays are all about”… This is from the hit 90’s NBC sitcom Seinfeld, “The Gum”4 https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0697705/ episode, which somehow gets quoted way too much around our household:

Pro tip: It’s the perfect zinger for any underwhelming holiday moment–especially ones that involve chewing.

For example, this November 1st, when you get busted with your mouth full of Halloween candy you stole from your kid, you’ll be ready with the perfect reply that’s guaranteed to go right over their little head!

“Moooommy! Wha-wha-what are you doing?!?”

*Trying to talk and chew 3 Fun Size Snickers at the same time* “This is what the holidays are all about!”

Parents…you’re welcome.

Content created on: 28/29 October 2020 (Weds/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Dying Rancher Only Wants To Be Put Out To Pasture

20 September 2020 / / 0 Comments
5 Min Read

We’re all going to die.

Some way, somehow, there’s a pretty good chance it’s going to happen to you someday. So we all might as well buck up and try to gain a healthy perspective on it.

Oh, maybe I’m being a bit presumptuous when I just assume you don’t have a tenable relationship with your inevitable demise.

After all, many cultures and religions world wide understand that it’s all part of the Circle of Life (thanks, Disney’s The Lion King!). Nevertheless, in modern Western society, death is all too often bandied about as a weapon of fear. And that’s part of the reason why I am here today.

There are two deaths in particular that stick in the gullet of my memory–one of a distant acquaintance, and the most personal one to me yet, that of my father, the beloved Bob J.

Out of respect for the life of the former, I won’t use his real name, I’ll just call him Superman instead.1Those of you who knew the man in question will get the reference, though it’s not meant to be humorous in the least. Superman was a respected member and leader of a community I was once part of, and was in his 60s with a life full of love and service under his belt.

A few years ago, he tragically went missing on his anniversary, only to be found a few days later in a nearby state park, dead, with his neck…tightened “under his belt.”

Plans for a community-wide memorial service celebrating his life were abruptly cancelled shortly after his body was discovered. It wasn’t long before it became clear why his family would make such an odd choice, given that he was literally loved by just about everyone that was even remotely acquainted with him (present company included).

Him going missing and subsequent passing was a pretty big deal in the local news media, so when his body was found, there was a certain sense of duty to publicly disclose the circumstances of his death. A sad choice, as those details were better left unsaid.

Let’s just say that those circumstances were less than flattering. Suffice it to say, he went behind his family’s back and got himself in a compromising position that went sideways. The result being him suffering an unspeakable death at the hands of another–but with his own belt, no less–and his body left to the wild animals.

I’m leaving out many details partly because they are simply sordid, and were incredibly devastating to his family and other loved ones upon learning. It was probably one of the worst ways to find out about the skeletons in a family member’s closet.

In the end, a worthy and noble life dedicated to loving others was lost in the long shadow cast by the indignity of the death which ended it.

When my dad passed, he not only lost his battle with cancer and pneumonia, but he simultaneously lost his lifelong battle with agriculture. He had spent the majority of his life as a farmer, trying to build something of a future for his family. However, having a bipolar disorder go undiagnosed until he was almost 60 largely undermined his efforts, and he literally “lost the farm” right around the time he should have been thinking about retirement instead.

Though he fought to make a living until the very end, it all eventually caught up to him. In particular, his living circumstances in the few weeks leading up to his final admission to the hospital were in no way a befitting reward for the life full of hard work which he had put in.

In a word, it was heartbreaking.

Shortly after his death, a sibling confidentially related a story to me that opened my eyes to just how humbling his last month on this earth was. The image is so heart-wrenching for me, in fact, that I keep it largely suppressed, and it is notable that I’m even partially acknowledging it here.

All I can really say is that he deserved so much better.

While ultimately he was fortunate enough to be surrounded by a wife and six of his seven kids when he finally ground his teeth one last time and gave up the ghost, the knowledge of how his last days were spent is what has haunted me.

Without going down a complete rabbit-hole, what you need to know is that after much thought I came to an interesting conclusion. When I think of all that a society could be–i.e. “What does my version of Utopia look like?”–I would argue that a fundamental right that would be guaranteed to each citizen is the right to die on their own terms.

What does this look like? Well it could look like a lot of different things.

Some may want to go out, surrounded by their adult kids fighting over a handsome inheritance.2I heard this somewhere, but can’t find who said it. I thought it was Adam Carolla, FWIW.

Others may want their last memory to be of holding the hand of the love of their lifetime.

I can imagine that many would like to leave this earth, knowing the ones they care about are in good hands, spiritually, financially or otherwise.

For my dad, his final request was to go see his cows one last time–he literally wanted to be “put out to pasture” (in the end the doctor denied this request, which, no pun intended–I thought was complete bullshit).

You get the idea, right? The sky is limitless on this one…as is the rabbit-hole is bottomless, so I’ll just leave it up to you what this might look like in your case.

I once heard that there are two particular events that largely dictate how you feel when you think back on a specific period of your life. I looked it up, and as it happens, I was thinking of what’s known as Peak-End Theory. Allow me to allow someone else summarize the essence of this idea for you:3https://positivepsychology.com/what-is-peak-end-theory/

It seems that our memories of positive and negative experiences are dependent upon two things: what we were feeling at the most extreme (peak) point and how the experience ended. 

Karen Doll, Psy.D., L.P., via positivepsychology.com

The point of the story is simply this: the death we die is almost as important as the life we have lived.

This is particularly important to remember as we’re in the midst of the COVID-19 crisis. You may hear arguments that COVID-related deaths are not that big of a deal, largely because many of the people who are dying are those who would have probably died from other causes within the next 5 years otherwise (or something to that effect). They have had their turn at a long and fruitful life, so the loss of a year or two in the twilight years should be taken in stride.

And there is some truth to this, as death is an inevitable and natural part of the human experience, especially when you get past a certain age. People dying is simply part of the business of being alive. If I’ve already said this, I’m gonna go ahead and say it again: “We’re all going to die [sometime].”4I should note that people who subscribe to such alternate theories as “The Rapture” and “An Inevitable and Impending Singularity” might disagree with the absolutist nature of this assertion.

But what these sick ----- are conveniently omitting is the fact that so, so many of these people die in complete isolation, deprived of the privilege of spending their final moments with the ones they love. Even the luckier ones are usually stuck with FaceTiming their loved ones there at the end.

Those are moments that neither the living nor the dead will get back.

So if you’re tempted to think that maybe the best course of action is to largely just let COVID run its course through cluster after cluster of our elderly population,5Not to mention the smaller yet still significant non-elderly population that succumbs to it. I mourn for you when it comes for your parent and you’re forced to watch them suffer the loneliest of ways to leave this planet.

Just imagine it was your father, suffering the greatest indignity imaginable for a dying rancher: having to sit through a Zoom meeting…with his cows.6Alternate Ending: “They gave us life; the least we can give them is a death worthy of the best of who they were.” I probably should have stuck with that one…

Oh, the Humanity!7Forgive me for awkwardly trying to lighten the mood here at the end.

Content created on: 18 June & 19 September 2020 (Thurs/Sat)

Footnotes & References:[+]

I Am White And Here To Be Incredibly Awkward

27 August 2020 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

“Excuse me, sir. Can I ask what your ethnicity is?”

I’m not gonna lie to y’all…I never saw that one coming.

I probably should just go ahead and say this upfront: I’m white, and I’m here to be awkward. Incredibly awkward, even, if all goes well.

The excellent news is that this happens to pair nicely with yet another Back-To-School vignette from my vast repertoire of life experiences. Everybody rejoice!

As long-time readers probably know by now, I’m a perennial front-runner in just about everybody’s Whitest Kid You Know contest. Or as, the beloved country music singer and philanthropist Dolly Parton would put it, I have a “lilly-white1Errata: so I just checked my source, and it turns out she said “little- white ass”. Color me disappointed:…https://www.billboard.com/articles/columns/country/9434624/artists-applaud-dolly-parton-dixie-comment-black-lives-matter ass.”

I’m talking Village-of-the-Damned, kicked-on-a-plane white. For better or worse, it is what it is.2Dammit, Donald, why do you have to ruin every turn-of-phrase.

Not exactly a prime candidate for an identity crisis, is what I’m trying to say. Yet, Life has a way of surprising us.

My moment of cognitive dissonance came the day before I started classes my Freshman year at Kansas State University. It was Back-To-School season, and as on most college campuses, every ----- campus organization and credit card company had booths set up outside of the Student Union, in search of easy prey.

Now, I was there on official business, picking up a textbook or some other classroom supply, and wasn’t in the market for anything they were selling. So I was in my own little world as I rolled up on my bike and was locking it to the bike rack.

Out of nowhere, I hear this voice…

“Excuse me. Excuse me, sir.”

Slightly bewildered, I scanned my surroundings.

“Excuse me, sir, can I ask what your ethnicity is?”

I realized that the voice belonged to the middle-aged Black woman sitting at the Black Student Union3https://ksusankofa.wordpress.com/ table.

And she was talking to…my lilly-white ass?

My brain slightly short-circuited…like, I understood the words she was saying, I just didn’t understand them when strung together like that. I didn’t think that particular topic could ever ever come up for debate.

Nevertheless, she was clearly talking to me, so I answered as best as I could.

“Uh…Caucasian? I guess…”

Not gonna lie, though, she had me doubting myself at that point.

“Oh, I see. I just wanted to say that I really love your skin tone. I’ve never seen anything like that before. It’s beautiful.”

I don’t know if it was because it was unexpected, or if it was because of from whom it was coming, but HOLY SHIT, I can’t even put into words how ----- fantastic that compliment made me ego4You can thank my Inner Pirate for that Freudian slip of a typo, Mateys! feel. I swear to you, it made me tingle in parts of my brain that I never knew existed.

I thanked her for her kind words and went on my way, puzzling over what had just happened and trying to figure out what my optimal response could have been.

Then I looked down at my arms and that’s when it hit me.

Oh. Right.

Context matters. And the context here was that I had just spent the whole summer working on the farm with my dad. Much of which was with an “I’m young and I’m never gonna die so bring on the melanoma” attitude towards sun exposure.

In other words, I had a so-called “Farmer’s Tan”…on steroids. Yet, somehow, answering “Tropical Viking” instead of “Caucasian” still didn’t feel quite right.

Oh, yeah. The hair…

You know what happens when already blonde hair gets too much sunshine? At that point, “white” isn’t even an accurate description anymore. “Clear,” “transparent,” or “fiber optics” would be better terms, but still don’t quite nail it.

Basically, I was a walking, talking, breathing film negative of a normal white person.

I know it’s a bit late of a repsonse, but, Ma’am, the correct answer to your question should have been:

“I’m a proud ethnic Bizarro Oompa-Loompa.”5This is not a joke. If I ever find my Driver’s License from that summer, I’ll post here as proof.

Indeed, ’tis a point of pride for me that I can say something that most of y’all crackers out there can’t:

” ‘Genuinely confuse a woman of color about my ethnicity?’ Oh, I checked that off my bucket list a looooong time ago.”

*Sigh.*

Despite my rather uncommon neo-ethnic bona fides, I’m admittedly still not very good at discussing racial topics. But I say the only way to getting better at it is practice, practice, practice! And that starts with whole-heartedly owning it…

Or, as I essentially told my woman-of-color admirer, “I’m white, and I’m here to be incredibly awkward.”

Content created on: 27 August 2020 (Thursday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

How To Protect Your Kids From Questionable Life Experiences

13 August 2020 / / 0 Comments
2 Min Read

Recently I was chatting with our 7 y.o. daughter “The Elder,” when I found myself lamenting how, while I can usually orally regale1Oh. Jeez. No, no, no, no. That is not a sexual ephemism. I just mean telling a story via the spoken word. You ----- pervert. someone with one of my many pointless stories in under 5 minutes start-to-finish, the same tale will always take a much larger chunk of my time to compose as a blog post.

This is actually a pretty big issue for me, as the time burden of producing written content can often really take the joy out of the whole process. It makes my Gift of Gab feel more like my Unbearable and Inescapable Curse of Gab most of the time.

And, you, Dear Readers, are the ones who end up suffering when you have to wade through my thoughts, only to be ‘rewarded’ with a punchline that was written in a state of exhaustion. Verily, you deserve only the finest puns and turns of phrase, and sadly I don’t always deliver.

Anyways, being a little problem-solver after my own heart, The Elder began brainstorming various ways that could help me churn out my milquetoast blog posts more efficiently.

She rattled off a few suggestions, with her ideas landing all over a spectrum that ran from moderately practical to implausibly fantastical. (She is only 7, after all, so you always gotta be emotionally prepared for at least one solution involving “rainbow-farting unicorns” to be thrown out.)

But then she got on a train of thought about how I could video myself telling my random stories, then go back and transcribe them.

“Wow,” I thought, “now she’s really on to something that might be worth trying out.”

“Not too bad, Kiddo. Not too bad…please, go on.”

“Oh, I know! You can even have some of my stuffed animals interview you…”

“That’s cute: ‘The Teddy Bear Tapes.’ It does have a nice ring to it…”

“…that way you can tell all those stories that I probably shouldn’t hear!”

I had to pause while my mind was being blown.

“Holy shit, that is genius!”

“Just one problem, though, Daddy.”

“Yeah?”

“You probably shouldn’t say ‘shit’ around me either. Save it for the stuffies.”

There. There you go. There’s your punchline. Hope it was worth your 2 minutes!2Ok, Judgy McJudgikins, for the official record, I didn’t actually say ‘shit’…out loud, at least.

Content created on: 12/13 August 2020 (Wed/Thurs)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Proudly Red In A Sea Of Blue

6 August 2020 / / 0 Comments
3 Min Read

“You’re going to wear that to the game?”

I looked down at my bright red shirt before delivering my retort.

“What? You expected me to wear blue like every other ----- person at the game? Pffft! Please!”

Despite being a bona fide grad school at the University of North Carolina–and despite getting free tickets to watch our renowned basketball team play some podunk school over Christmas break–something irked me about wearing “Carolina Blue” and being just another drop of water in the ocean of UNC fans.

And this pompous roommate of mine who found it necessary to razz me about it? Well, this asshat was really irking me.

Further, him being a prick about it only served to reinforce my resolve to not be yet another bougie blue sheep in the herd. Screw him–I was wearing my plain Communist-red tee1It’s a reference to the band Plain White Tees, best known for their hit single “Hey there, Delilah.” One of our roommates at the time played it non-stop. True story… for sure now.

So off I went to the game with another of my roommates, Esteban, proud of myself for being such a rebel, but otherwise not giving it much thought.

It wasn’t the first time I had to deal with sticking out like a sore thumb, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. And I didn’t mind the occasional odd look–a small price to pay to march to the beat of my own drummer, I like to say.

In fact, it was kinda fun confusing people, seeing as how the visiting team’s color was orange, so it wasn’t really clear at all by the way I dressed for whom exactly it was I was rooting.

It was good times, indeed.

Later, coming back from the game, I was regaling Esteban with the tale about how P.F. Chaz (the roommate from earlier) was riding my ass about the red shirt.

Now usually Esteban lent a sympathetic ear to my various asinine causes–completely unlike ol’ PFC–so it took me slightly by surprise when he thought for a moment before simply stating, “Yeah, many people take a lot of pride in their team and its colors. I could see how they might find it a little rude…and it just seems a bit unnecessary on your part.”

Oh, it was a classic M. Night2You know, the writer/director of such twist-centric movies as The Sixth Sense, The Village, and Signs. moment, indeed: ’twas I who had been the asshat all along–what a tweeest!

The first point of the story is that there is something to be said about using your criticism sparingly. If you’re a full-time dickhead, your friends and family aren’t going to be able to hear you when that moment arises when they need to be told lovingly that they’re being a bit of an a-hole.

The second point is for all of those ‘Mericans out there who can identify all too well with me in this story. Yup, I speak of those of us who put a disproportionate premium on their personal rights. To all of us in this category, consider the following.

Sure, I could exercise my rights to be different and do my own thang. But at the same time, maybe–just maybe–I could think of it as an opportunity for me to willingly set those rights aside as an act of service and respect to those around me.3WWJD–amiright?!?

You know, and to not be a complete turd for no good reason. So, wear a ----- mask already. Rhonda.

Oh, what’s that? Did you really expect this story to end any differently? Pfft!

Content created on: 5 August 2020 (Wednesday)

Footnotes & References:[+]

Mister Brown Ya Just Another Clown

2 August 2020 / / 0 Comments
4 Min Read

“Michael Brown? Pfft! That dude was a clown!”

Me, circa 2015

I recently had a social media interaction discussing the recent protests with someone that I knew to be much more likely to disagree with me than to agree with me. Despite this, I had reason to be optimistic that it would be an earnest conversation, even if we walked away not having changed the other’s point of view.

Sadly, that’s not how things went (to put it mildly).

Their response when I even indirectly referred to Black Lives Matter was most certainly negative and rather, uh, “impassioned”–and much more so than I had ever anticipated.

The whole ordeal left me a little bummed out and with a lot to process.

One thing I found myself pondering was, “why so angry, my friend?” Well, I’m guessing ‘angry’ is the right term…I think it would be hard to interpret it any other way if you saw their comment directed at me.

But once I got the chance to really think about it, I realized that not too long ago I think I felt pretty much the same way.

Yeah, that’s right, Buster: I too, was once just like you (maybe)…

This is where Michael Brown comes into the picture. Yes, that Michael Brown.

If y’all don’t recall, he was the young man who was shot by police officer Darren Wilson in Ferguson, Missouri back in 2014. There was a pretty strong community response to this event, and the ensuing protests were often intertwined with the Black Lives Matter movement.

And damn, if all that didn’t ever make me feel uncomfortable. In fact, a part of it still does, to a certain degree.

I could only imagine how shitty it must have been to be Darren, trying to do his dangerous job in an at-times hostile environment, and then to be at the center of a tragic event like this. I could almost feel his pain of automatically and unfairly being judged as a “racist cop,” with an angry mob calling for his head without having all the facts.

In a way, it almost felt like it was a personal attack on me, and that it wouldn’t be long before I would find myself unjustly painted as a racist–potentially ruining my life. I think being so grossly misunderstood is one of the greater fears that I have.

I can’t help but wonder how many other white fellas had a similar emotional response to this as I did. Certainly I couldn’t have been alone, right?

Thinking back on this reminds me that we all deserve the right to have our own fears, emotions, and values. And whether or not its a surprise to you, my baseline response to BLM wasn’t exactly ‘sympathetic’.

And then along came Sara.

A friend of the Boss Lady, she was visiting from out of town around the time Ferguson was still regularly in the news and on the minds of the American people.

God knows how it came up, but much to my chagrin I found myself a captive member of a very uncomfortable conversation.

The worst part was that, as a white woman, she was speaking of the protests almost…positively.

I’m not gonna lie, even if it wasn’t her intention, I kinda felt like I was under attack. I felt like my perspective was being told it wasn’t valid.

It felt grossly unfair.

And it’s hard to hear anything when you feel like you’re being bulldozed over.

Keep in mind, though, that she was as gracious and kind as you could ever be in the moment. She never told me I was wrong. She never spoke down to me. She never for once assumed that I was an asshole.

I felt under assault, yet she gave me the space to feel however I felt, without judgment.

I eventually spoke up in defense of white guys like me, though I can’t remember what I said.

She nodded and acknowledged my contribution to the conversation. It wasn’t a completely unreasonable view, after all.

I’ll never forget, though, what came next.

Trying to hold back tears, she simply said “I can’t even imagine being in their shoes, to live every day with a basic fear for their lives that I’ve never had to experience myself.”

Something about the rawness of the moment, the selflessness, was just enough to knock me off my guard. It was just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the world outside my own perspective.

Indeed, I could only imagine what it was like to be the cop. That’s the person I could most easily see myself being in that situation.

It wasn’t overnight, but in time I came to understand that Mr. Michael Brown wasn’t “just another clown.”

I had never even began to think about it through the other lenses in the moment: Michael’s, his mother’s, his community’s, those who might say “that could have been me.”

Eventually, though, I was able to at least begin to entertain those very uncomfortable thoughts. Once I allowed for that, I gotta say that I felt like my worries and fears paled in comparison to the existential threats others were facing.

And guess what? Even in acknowledging these realities so far outside my own, I found my own was still just as real (and vice versa).

I realized I was going to be okay. I wasn’t going to have to lose any part of myself in order to love others better.

In retrospect, it seems so basic: consider others’ feelings and experiences. Such an easy way to make the world a better place, right? How hard can that possibly be?

Well, for what it’s worth, I still royally suck at it. But I like to hold out hope that, on occasion, I might be getting it right.

And maybe one day, I will have the privilege of being someone else’s Sara.

Content created on: 24 July & 2 August 2020 (Friday/Sunday)

« Older posts Newer posts »

© 2025 The Point of the Story

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑

error

Enjoy this blog? Please spread the word :)

RSS
Facebook
Twitter
Follow by Email
YouTube
YouTube
Instagram