My upstairs view, serving fiery apocalyptic realness.
My upstairs view, serving fiery apocalyptic realness.
This transcript has been lightly edited for clarity, privacy, sanity, and decency.
Me [10:42 AM]
cause this weekend, Gay Earth was single-mindedly obsessing over Taylor Swift
so this little glimpse into Straight Earth I just got [two colleagues talking about this weekend’s boxing match between Conor McGregor and Floyd Mayweather] was both illuminating and confusing
Other [10:44 AM]
yeah I was lost in my I-Don’t-Own-a-TV-or-Know-What’s-Going-On World
Me [10:46 AM]
I once went on my soapbox and delivered a rousing speech about why romantic relationships are useless evolutionary hangovers, the equivalent of nipples on guys, during a prosecco-fueled dinner party
Other [10:46 AM]
but I generally agree, dogs are just much better persons than people
Me [10:46 AM]
in front of my boyfriend
Other [10:47 AM]
i wish i could’ve seen that!
Me [10:47 AM]
but everyone disagreed
I DONT TOLERATE DISAGREEMENT
Other [10:47 AM]
you shouldn’t. because you’re right, and that’s that.
Me [10:48 AM]
why thank you
also i’ll never understand the appeal of paying 100 dollars to watch two guys hit each other in the face
Other [10:49 AM]
you’re welcome (I’m scared to disagree with you)
yeah haha me neither
Me [10:49 AM]
though actually now that Ive typed that, it sounds totally logical
Other [10:49 AM]
it’s disgusting to me, and it’s like… a trend or something
all the guys watch that shit now
Me [10:49 AM]
i thought boxing was like Miss World, a super niche retro thing from the 1970s that nobody cares about
Other [10:50 AM]
so did I
Me [10:50 AM]
Miss World Boxing, now that’s an idea
Other [10:50 AM]
that would sell gazillions
Me [10:51 AM]
I would totally watch Miss Wales and Miss Botswana slap each other around in evening wear
Other [10:52 AM]
Miss Wales would be a sheep, so that wouldn’t be a fair fight
I do not condone animal cruelty.
Me [10:53 AM]
that’s not how it works. they don’t send their biggest exports to miss world. Miss Spain is never an olive.
Other [10:53 AM]
How cool would that be!
Other [10:54 AM]
poor, poor sheep
Me [10:54 AM]
you meant like a metaphorical sheep?
I thought it was the work of my life. I tried to make it stick. I changed, and it changed, and we played mental games against each other until years of relationship snapped in half like a twig.
We met, as it so often happens, through well-meaning friends.
"I think you two would hit it off."
“You’d make a great match.”
“Everybody wants this.”
I didn’t have much going on in terms of a traditionally conceived future, but I did have a keenness to write and a bunch of ideas, so I thought, yes. Yes, I want to do this. And then I parsed it around to This is what I want to do, which sounds the same but is absolutely not, by way of its absoluteness.
We got engaged right away. A long-distance race that should end up with me changing my name (Dr Starts with G!). Its friends were nice, mostly. There was a visiting professor who smelled moldy and wouldn’t look me in the eye and chewed on his own beard like it was made of sugar cane, but that was fine. I worked hard and did well on my coursework. Things were fine for a while.
I got some form of life purpose out of it. I don't know what my PhD got from me in return. No, I do know — it got my weekends. My evenings. My holidays. When you’re doing a PhD, you can’t really not think about it, even when you’re not thinking about it. There’s no natural end to it — maybe you run out of funding and you have to push a thesis out of whatever your brain’s equivalent of a uterus is, or you reach the point where you have absolutely nothing else to say, or your spouse and friends organize an intervention, and then you’re done.
But until then, you chip away at this thing and you’re never really not chipping away at it.
I defended it when people talked trash about it, calling it things like useless or pointless or demented, and reacted with self-righteousness when other former PhD students in recovery told me it would never last. "Just you wait", they'd say. "What the fuck do you know about my relationship", I'd think.
And all along I'd look at even the happiest PhD/student pairings, and feel not even a smidgen of thrill or anticipation of jealousy. Is that who I am? Who I want to be? Teaching, writing, doing research, lather, rinse, repeat?
The teaching was my favorite. I have always loved teaching, since back in the days when I was a high school student in Norway and they plonked me in front of a group of leirskule children and told me to teach them salsa (I couldn't dance salsa but it didn't matter — I have a Spanish name and anyway we spent the entire time trying and failing to get the boys to stand next to the girls). I loved teaching so much that I took twice the teaching credit requirements.
And I also loved the writing — no, the writing was my favorite. Let's face it, some of us don't write a packing checklist without the hope that someone will read it and think it's a fresh and daring take. So what if I had to write papers on Gayatri Spivak's 'material predication of the subject'*.
* I warn you, this is a real thing but it's best not to ask any more questions if you value your sanity.
But these things, which I enjoyed so much on their own, turned out to be terrible together — like a big gob of mayonnaise splattered onto a bowl of lentil soup.
When I searched for some inner voice to tell me what to do, all I could hear, whispered softly with the conviction of a lifetime, was Not this. Not this.
When I looked in the mirror and tried to figure out who this tired-looking, confused, gray person was staring back at me, all I could see reflected in those pupils were the words Not you. Not you.
But I felt guilty about my full fellowship, the spot I had taken from someone else who would have really wanted it. I felt useless and rudderless without it, my only skill being able to argue successfully for one thing and its exact opposite. How much does that pay? So I chipped away at it some more.
By the third year of fieldwork, I had figured out the answer to the question I was asking — that the true source of people's political power is the stories that they tell themselves. And then it hit me that I didn’t have a language to tell that story. I had to throw out my script about political opportunity or resource mobilization or institutional veto points. I couldn't compare anything to anything else anymore. I could have started again, I could have made it work, I could have gotten excited.
But I wasn't excited. I was tired. So I didn't.
We separated way before the divorce was official. I started seeing other occupations. I cheated on my PhD very publicly with a full-time administrative job for a while – it wasn't passion (my new lover was most unhot, and all it ever talked about was proper invoicing) but it was against the rules, and new, and different. Taking a job in billing made me feel alive and independent again. It was an act of defiance. It hardly matters that the sex was awful.
Eventually, I left the country and moved across the Atlantic ocean for a while. By the time I got back to Europe, I was done.
It was my fault. It was nobody’s fault. It felt for a while like a cataclysmic personal failure. It felt also wonderful, truly wonderful, to be free of it. Because that’s what happens when you leave home every morning with your good-on-paper clothes on. They feel scratchy and accentuate your lower back fat and they’re wrong, even if they’re what you’ve been told to wear, and they’re trendy and you’ve spent a fortune on them.
One day, I tossed them in the trash and left home naked. And I was cold, and scared, and vulnerable and free.
And I never, ever looked back.
Hello Kitty. Famous for no discernible reason, and criminally useless. The Kardashian of cartoon characters.
It started as a practical joke that quickly got out of hand, but I am now at the stage of wearing Hello Kitty For Men shirts I bought for a lot of money in a pop-up store in Tokyo.
So, clearly, I have given this some thought.
It’s not that I hate Hello Kitty, although I do think she’s awful. I am drawn to Hello Kitty the same way people are to sour milk: it repels you, but you have to smell it. Because when I look beyond the bovine eyes and the non-mouth and that stupid say-nothing do-nothing expression, I see something of myself there.
Specifically three soul-crushing somethings.
One: If you keep your mouth shut and your expression blank, nobody will know how empty you are inside and they will like you more.
Oooh Hello Kitty is so cute, mommy, can i have the [sippy cup / rucksack / pillow case/ chainsaw] with Hello Kitty on it?
And mommy says yes because there’s not much to object to– just a cat-like outline, not even the hint of a smile. Girlfriend ain’t even got a mouth.
That dead, inscrutable facade is the true mark of a sociopath. But mommy doesn’t know.
The truth is, it is easy to be disliked and judged negatively for expressing any form of thought or opinion — be it about politics, music or mayonnaise, someone’s bound to think you’re a dick. The path to popularity is to talk as much as you want while saying nothing at all.
Caption your next social media post with #livelaughlove (or is it #lovelivelife?) for likes and hearts. Try #blacklivesmatter for crickets and death threats. If you can successfully portray harmless banality in all your interactions, you can coast along quite well.
Life is easier if you pretend you’re an idiot. Mommy may not know that (she doesn’t have to pretend to be an idiot). But the Kitty knows.
Two: You might as well wear the same outfit all the time because no one ever notices.
Describe Hello Kitty’s outfit right now without Googling. Is it a pink dress thing? Is it a shirt and pants combo? Is she ass-naked and showing her no-no parts on that bib you bought for your niece that says I Heart My Gay Uncle?
You don’t know. Or you think you know, but you’re really not sure. Even though you have seen Hello Kitty a bazillion times. That’s because nobody truly pays attention to anything, but most particularly nobody truly pays attention to you.
Not to the new haircut you researched painstakingly before getting. Not to the $175 Carolina Herrera shirt you wore to your birthday dinner. Not to the botox.
All that money you’ve ever spent on clothes, hair products, gym — it’s all been a waste.
And it will always be a waste.
Three: The basis of your human nature is nothing but a collective agreement that is now crumbling to dust before your very eyes.
Back in 2014, the creators of Hello Kitty caused international headlines by claiming that Hello Kitty was, in fact, not a cat. She was a girl. Forget the cat ears and the cat whiskers and the KITTY IN HELLO FUCKING KITTY — the Sanrio company wants to gaslight you into believing that cat has always been a person and I guess we’re all idiots for ever thinking otherwise.
Hello Kitty is attempting to Rachel Dolezal her way into membership into the human condition, by simply declaring herself to be a human. And if Hello Kitty can be a person, what the hell does that make you?
A carbon-based life form. That’s all.
Hello Kitty is not the nihilist anti-hero we want. But she’s sure as fuck the one we deserve.
1- Don’t burst into the locker room like an Ostrogoth warlord
You know what people do in locker rooms these days? Take naked photos of themselves in the mirror. Do you know what happens when you fling the locker room door open and catch someone mid-selfie? They drop their phone on the floor, and there through a badly cracked screen lies a picture of half their penis. Out of focus.
Do this instead: knock gently, count to forty, then open the door slowly and walk backwards into the locker room, keeping your eyes on the floor.
2- Don’t cling to the bicep curl machine in desperation like it’s your father’s approval
He doesn’t really love you, despite what mom says. The bicep curl machine doesn’t love you either. Let it go.
Do this instead: let more deserving people enjoy the bicep curl machine. Just like your father’s approval.
3- Don’t antagonize the receptionist with practical and necessary questions
She’s busy and can’t be bothered and all she can see when you talk to her is your gelatinous upper arms. One more annoying interjection from you and she’ll roll her eyes and you’ll be getting the shittiest locker for weeks — the one that’s set so low that you need to bust your kneecaps to reach it, then crack your skull open against the door of the next locker if and when you manage to get up.
Do this instead: figure out the goddamned WiFi password on your own.
4- Don’t make eye contact between sets with the short guy that smells like a donkey
Just — trust me on this.
Do this instead: scribble something on your little notebook so that people think there’s a method to your being there. But there is no method, is there. You’re pure, unbridled chaos.
5- Don’t make eye contact between sets with the personal trainers
Just — trust me on this.
Do this instead: run the fuck away whenever a trainer gets too close for comfort, which in my case is a half-mile radius. I don’t need to know what the hell I’ve been doing wrong fitness-wise for years, and I don’t think you do either.
6- Don’t ask for help when you staple yourself to the bench under a 120 kg barbell
This is pretty self-explanatory, but here it goes: if you are like me and have no friends, you won’t have anyone to spot you (i.e move 75 percent of the weight while repeating “it’s all you, bro!”) while you bench press. You could just not do bench presses or just use dumbbells or whatever, but sometimes it’s Monday and Monday is International Bench-Pressing Day. So we staple ourselves. We do.
Do this instead: pretend this was your plan all along. Nothing to see. Lalala. Eventually one of these three things will happen: a) someone will discreetly lend you a hand and set you free; b) the gym will be closed for the night and you’ll become a permanent part of the equipment; or c) your ribcage will give way with a horrifying crunch.
Bed time, at last.
IF IT HADN’T BEEN FOR COTTON-EYE JOE
I’D BEEN MARRIED LONG TIME AGO
WHERE DID YOU COME FROM WHERE DID YOU GO
WHERE DID YOU COME FROM COTTON-EYE JOE
I am at a house party in Cabbagetown, Toronto, hosted by a delightful young gay couple I met at my gym on Yonge & Something. I am wearing jeans, a black tank top, and a paddy cap.
A red-haired woman asks me the second question everyone always asks in Toronto. The first question is what’s your name. Then they pretend you don’t have an accent and avoid asking you where you come from because they once read an op-ed written by a frothy thought-police
maperson about how you’re a cryptofascist for othering others by questioning their origin.
And they go straight to asking you what you do for a living because Canadians are the greatest people in the world, but they still need to know where you rank in the grand scheme of things.
So I tell her the truth — that I am the Editor in Chief of Arthritis Monthly magazine. I say it like that, capitalizing Editor and Chief because job titles should always be capitalized in Toronto.
To this she oohs and aahs and how-interestings. Yes, it is quite interesting, but also very challenging, I say. It’s not easy to fill up an entire magazine with fresh arthritis-related content every single month plus the special summer issue.
The red-haired woman is single and middle-aged and gorgeous and wants to tell me about all the boys she’s slept with in the past three months. I pretend to listen but my mind is elsewhere, thinking as I am of the next Arthritis Monthly centerfold spread — two blank pages with an old lady crumpled into a tiny twisted heap in the bottom right corner.
One of the hosts is snorting coke off the abs of a shirtless Portuguese waiter. He turns to me and says, “you can’t smoke in the house”.
Then I wake up.