Sex Toys, Part One: Suppliers and Materials

Hoo boy.  I'll bet when you opened a blog called "Buddhist in the Bible Belt," you did not expect a discourse on sex toys.  Buddhism, like most religions, seems anti-sex at first glance ("It's about meditation, not masturbation!")  But like most religions, Buddhism has to deal with human beings, and above all, Buddhism is about how to to be happy.  Buddhist human beings will have sex, because it makes them happy.  They will have sex a lot, they will enjoy having sex, and they will probably also have some bad experiences, as all human beings do.  

The particular stripe of Buddhism I follow was founded by Thich Nhat Hanh, who famously rewrote the Five Precepts into the Five Mindfulness Trainings.  The third one, True Love, talks directly about sex.  Surprise!  It doesn't say "Don't have sex."  It says, "...I am determined not to engage in sexual relations without mutual consent, true love, and a deep, long-term commitment. I resolve to find spiritual support for the integrity of my relationship from family members, friends, and sangha with whom there is support and trust."  The Third Mindfulness Training then refuses to define exactly what that means, but it does say that "Recognizing the diversity of human experience, I am committed not to discriminate against any form of gender identity or sexual orientation."  Those are the rules I follow, if they can be said to be rules (the Precepts are more like the Five Really Excellent Suggestions).  But no matter what kind of relationship you're in, even none at all, you should enjoy yourself.  We all need to enjoy ourselves. 

Anyway, there comes a time in every life when one realizes one is getting older.  The summer is almost over, and the autumn is coming.  You've worked for 30 years, learned some stuff, and now you have some Accumulated Wisdom and you want to Give Something Back.  And yeah, I've thought about teaching some paralegal courses or writing a book about law firm culture, but what I really know some shit about is sex toys. 

Especially vibrators.  The buzz, the Battery Operated Boyfriend, the Friday night date.  Now, don't get me wrong.  I have had some great sex.  (Though usually with the wrong people.)  But sex without sex toys is nothing compared to sex with sex toys. and even sex toys without the sex are pretty good.  I know where to get them, how to select them, and how to use them.  And I thought to myself, self, if ever information needs to be out there, this is it.  

Firstly, since I'm a paralegal, let's discuss the legalities.  There is no state in the Union where it is illegal to possess a vibrator.  There is one state (Alabama) where it is illegal to sell them, but fear not, you can get them mail order.  In Texas, it was once famously illegal to own more than six dildoes, and at one point in the early 2000s, a woman was actually arrested for hosting a sex toy party.  The charge was thrown out by the court on constitutional grounds. The six-dildo rule met a similar fate in 2008.  I combed the Internet high and low, and nowhere could I find a recent case of anyone being arrested for possessing or buying a sex toy.  At least not in the United States.  Thailand, Malaysia, several African countries and pretty much the entire Arab world is another story, so exercise extra caution and check local laws when traveling there.

I am all for supporting local merchants, but I'm going to make an exception here.  (Especially if you live in Alabama.)  Your best source of sex toys is usually not your local condom shop.  I mean, you can find stuff there (heck, they sell them on Amazon) and I'm not saying you should never shop there in an emergency, but if you want good quality stuff that's going to stand the test of time, you really want to get it from a mail-order vendor with an excellent reputation.  (Yes, you can have a good reputation for selling quality dildoes.)  

There are, by the way, about a zillion mail order corporations that sell this stuff.  The sex toy market was a $10.2 billion dollar industry in 2024, and more than 40,000 people in the United States are in some way employed in the production and marketing of sex toys. That's right, vibrators are not only fun, they are patriotic.  I have bought from several vendors and had both good and bad experiences.  But here are my favorites:

• Sub-shop.com.  This is a fetish and kink site so I sort of hesitated to lead with it for fear of scaring off the newbie, but it is far and above my favorite.  Autumn runs a tight ship, so to speak, and her Web site is amazing.  There are libidinous product descriptions, personal stories, how-to guides that cover subjects as wild as BDSM rule making and as mundane as relationship communication.  You can easily spend a few hours here.  Oh, and the prices are good too.  Autumn mail orders in a discreet brown box that looks like it's from the library, bills under "Autumn Boutique" and so far my stuff has shown up within 48 hours of purchase.  

• Goodvibes.com.  This is the grandmother of sex toy Web sites.  The company itself has been around since the late 1970s and was one of the first (and maybe only, at the time) sex positive, woman-friendly places to buy sex-oriented products.  Their anthem is "in our world, pleasure is celebrated.  Shame is replaced with empowerment..."  Their Sex Education Sales Associates receive more sex education than most doctors, and their Web site is friendly, professional and easy to navigate.  There's even an antique vibrator museum next time you're in San Francisco.

• Edenfantasys.com.  A little more raunchy than Goodvibes.com, Eden has a great layout and prides itself on offering the most bang for your buck (pun intended).  Sex toys are vigorously reviewed (pun also intended) on a one to five star system, and since the reviews consist of real people giving honest opinions, I have found them to be trustworthy.  They are also highly environmentally correct (they even have a recycling program).  

So that should get you shopping.  Now, let's have a quick word about materials.  

Especially if you have a sensitivity to certain chemicals, you will want to pay particular attention to what your friend is made of.  Some materials are porous and some are not, which is important when it comes to cleaning and sanitation.  Also, there are different textures for different sensations.  Here are the materials you will see most often, and their pluses and minuses.

• Hard plastic.  This is the most common material.  It is relatively cheap, easy to find, and it comes in a wild variety of colors and surfaces. The touch sensation is nothing at all like actual human skin, but it has the advantage of being easy to clean, and unlikely to retain germs.  

• Silicone.  Silicone feels amazingly like human skin, is softer than hard plastic and packs a powerful punch, if you get my drift.  Disadvantages include skin sensitivity for some people and complaints of inadequate firmness.

• Gel.  This is the softest material you can get for a vibrator.  It also has a very realistic skin sensation, with the same disadvantages of skin sensitivity and lack of firmness.  

• Glass.  Yes, you can get a glass dildo.  Obviously it will be cold, but it warms up pretty fast and is wonderfully firm. There are no problems with skin sensitivity, but you don't want to drop it.  Glass also tends to be expensive.

• Crystal.  Disclaimer: I have never actually tried one of these, but I have heard absolutely rapturous reviews from people who have.  Rose quartz is a favorite.  Obviously very firm and nonporous, but very expensive and kind of hard to find.  

• Leather.  Leather wins for the most realistic skin sensation, because of course.  Firmness varies with the build.  On the expensive side but much cheaper than glass or crystal.  Warning:  YOU MUST USE A CONDOM IF YOU ARE GOING TO SHARE ONE OF THESE.  Leather is incredibly porous and it is not safe to do otherwise.

I'll bet you didn't know there was so much to sex toys.  Well, the most important thing is to enjoy the ones you buy, and this should get you started.  Next time we'll talk about vibration, patterns, getting the most oomph for your money, and how much oomph do you need, anyway?

Christmas Gift

Yes, this is gonna be the feel-good holiday post for the ages.  Timing is everything, ya know.

First of all, I may have spoken too soon about my new office building not being haunted.  I've been in the ladies' room by myself on a number of occasions, and on at least three of them, a voice has spoken out of thin air.  It's a woman's voice, kind of moderately pitched, and not unpleasant.  The first time I swear it said "muon", which, for the record, is a subatomic particle.  Most recently it said "Hello," very definitively, and then "Huh?" when I said hello back.  But, I mean, it's probably not a ghost.  It's a ladies' room.  It's probably just sound coming through a vent or a pipe or something.  Nothing to be alarmed about.  Right?  Right?  

Second of all, Grayson the Cat swallowed a sewing needle and thread (!!).  Panicky run to the emergency vet at 11pm after I'd taken my nighttime meds and shouldn't have been driving. X rays showing the needle lodged just below his esophagus.  Numerous phone calls to the bank trying to come up with the $6500 deposit for the surgery he was gonna have to have.  But at the last minute, a miracle occurred, and veterinarian Dr. Encarnacion decided to try endoscopy.  It worked.  He retrieved the needle, the thread and the nasty knot tied at the end through Grayson's throat.  No surgery.  It still cost us $5 grand, but was much easier on Grayson of course, and he was back to his usual self in a few days' time.  (It was doubly lucky that it was a long beading needle, which couldn't fit down into Grayson's stomach and wasn't very sharp.  Dr. E. had never seen such a needle before and asked me a bunch of questions about it.)  

And finally, there has been a major twist in the saga of my mom, my dad, Alzheimer's disease and the long slow march to assisted living.  Read on.

My dad is the one with Alzheimer's.  My dad is going to 87 in March, and Alzheimer's is pretty common in men of his age (what few there are).  He's in perfect health otherwise.  Plays tennis three times a week, goes to the gym, lifts weights.  He needs some guidance to get through his day, but he's not belligerent (fairly pleasant, actually) and he doesn't wander off.  My mom is managing him.  

Of late, though, my mom has been driving both me and my sister up the wall.  She was diagnosed with a lung condition common to people who have rheumatoid arthritis, and prescribed oxygen.  She insisted that she did not have the lung condition that two different doctors told her she had and refused to fill the oxygen prescription even as her blood oxygen started testing in the mid-80s (generally that's hospitalization and sometimes a ventilator, and she refused to do that too, of course). She has finally decided to get the oxygen prescription filled "just to make us happy." Not sure if she's actually using it. 

She has also, as she has for over a year, not made a decision about assisted living.  In fact, her most recent declaration was that she wasn't going to move because she felt fine, everything was great, and she was managing my dad just fine and anyway, he was not that bad.  (He's deteriorating all the time, but she's trying very hard to cover this up.)  Further, she has provoked both my sister and I into stupid arguments about nothing.  Most recently, she told my sister she was wrong about some college football play.  My sister is THE college football expert and this would be kind of like telling Einstein he was wrong about some part of the general relativity equation.  My sister got so fed up she stopped talking to my mom for about a week.  

Well, guess what.  My sister looked into my mom's neurology records and found the most recent MRI with notes.  My mom was diagnosed with vascular dementia, severe and advanced. Google it, it is quite a thing, but here are the basics. Vascular dementia is not like Alzheimer's.  You don't lose your memory.  Instead, you become unable to take in new information and incorporate it with what you already know.  You become argumentative because, of course, people are trying to give you new information and you can't incorporate it.  And you lose your ability to plan, execute plans, and even make simple decisions.  What's more, it's not a steady decline like Alzheimer's.  You'll coast along for a while, then suddenly drop off a cliff to a lower level of functioning.  Then you'll coast along there for a while, and drop again.  By our best estimate, my mom dropped off one of those cliffs around two and a half weeks ago.  

In other words, she's not trying to be a miserable bitch.  At least not anymore.  What's going on now is really not her fault.

Obviously, this is not good news, but in a way it is.  Now that we know she's not competent to manage her own affairs (or my father's, or my aunt's), my sister's power of attorney kicks in, and we don't need her agreement to do things to keep her and my dad safe.  (Yes, we're seeking legal advice on that point.)  We've added them to two assisted living waitlists, both of which have memory care for when needed, and it will be needed; that's obvious.  We've talked to some experts who have told us how to communicate with Mom in the future.  (Don't argue, just do what needs to be done and tell her, "This has already been handled" or "We're taking this off your plate".)  We're getting a nurse to come in and handle their medications, which God alone knows if they are being taken correctly or at the right times (my mom was managing all that).  In short, things are moving along much more quickly than they have been for years now.  

And me?  Well, it's been--remarkably quiet inside my head.

This may be a news flash, but your brain does not exist to make you happy.  It's there to keep you alive.  So one of the things it does, maybe a lot in some people and just a little in others, is rehearse worst case scenarios and plan responses.  What if you lose your job?  Well, the plan is to do this, this and this.  What if you find out your girlfriend is cheating on you?  You dump her!  Oh wait, maybe not.  Maybe it would be better to get counseling.  That sort of thing.  My brain does this ALL THE TIME.  There is not a single worst case scenario that I have not considered in one form or another.  (In case you're wondering what I'm planning to do in the event of civilizational collapse, the answer is "die".)  And part of that is having arguments with my mother, whether she's physically present or not.  It's kind of like having a little devil on my shoulder that constantly tells me I'm stupid, fat, lazy and wrong about everything, and I mentally jump up and down and scream about it.  It's exhausting.

But, a couple days after the diagnosis, there was this palpable shift.  It was like the little devil disappeared.  Or, to use a cat metaphor, it was what Cricket did while Grayson was in the hospital.  Cricket is afraid of Grayson; understandably, since every time he sees her, he tries to kill her. So Cricket pretty much lives in the back bedroom and doesn't come out.  It's okay; she has everything she needs back there.  But while Grayson was gone, Cricket came out, walked around, checked out the house, even touched noses with Artemis.  She knew Grayson was gone and there was nothing to worry about.  And that's what's happened to me.  The person I used to argue with is gone, so there is nothing to argue about.  

I mean, at the same time this happened, I started taking Spravato, so it's possible that's also responsible for part of the shift.  But I doubt it's the whole thing.  My mom is, of course, still alive.  Huge challenges lie ahead.  We have to tell her she's moving, for one thing, though not for a couple of months.  She might throw a major fit.  Or she may just shrug and say okay.  But she is moving.  That's the end of that story.  There are medical decisions to be made and possibly a house to be sold and people we have to hire and services we're going to need and thank God, there is money; my parents have lots of money.  But my sister is in charge, I'm behind her 100%, and we're gonna get stuff done.  Best of all, I'm not gonna have to do it while arguing with a phantom. 

So anyway, that was my Christmas gift this year.  I will take it.  It's a whole lot better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick.  

House of Dynamite

When I was a kid, I used to have nightmares about nuclear war.  I'm sure I'm not the only person who did.  I was probably eight or nine when they started.  Missiles flying overhead, big mushroom clouds exploding.  I had a couple in which I felt my body dissolve as it was vaporized.  But nuclear war is so 1980s, isn't it?  We have much bigger things to be afraid of.  Like global pandemics.  Measles making a resurgence.  The world economy teetering on the edge of a crash.  So there really isn't time to deal with nuclear war.  We're just gonna have to hope that never happens.  

Except.  Have you guys seen “House of Dynamite” on Netflix yet? If not, go watch it and come right back, and we'll discuss. I'm finding it frustrating in the extreme that my friends and family members have not seen it yet.  Or won't see it, and I have no one to discuss it with. I've been going over the moral implications for days, and I've seen it three times.

Seriously, if you are going to see “House of Dynamite,” DO NOT READ ANY MORE OF THIS BLOG POST. I am going to spoil the hell out of it. I am even going to discuss the controversial ending which is kind of the whole point. So if you want to see the movie unspoiled, read no further.

(Sidebar here: Jared Harris does an amazing turn as Secretary of Defense Baker.  He was so good I looked up what else he's been in.  He was a nuclear scientist in the amazing miniseries "Chernobyl." He also Dr. Moriarity in the Sherlock Holmes movies with Robert Downey, Jr.  And he's been in two or three things I wouldn't see for all the tea in Afghanistan.) 

Still with me? Okay then. I'm gonna summarize the plot just briefly here. A missile is launched at the United States from an unknown actor somewhere in the Pacific. Maybe Russia, maybe China, but as things develop, most of the characters agree that it was probably North Korea. (But uncertainty remains.) Maybe it was an accident, but most of the characters think it was probably not. (But uncertainty remains.) Anyway, we attempt to shoot it down with one of our “Star Wars” missile defense warheads, but we miss. (“Star Wars” only has a sixty percent success rate on its best day. As Jake, the deputy secretary, explains to the President, “It's like trying to hit a bullet with a bullet.”)

So the missile is still inbound and is going to hit somewhere in the Midwest, probably Chicago, in about fifteen minutes. There is no time to evacuate. Unless the missile is a dud or fails to detonate, Chicago and its ten million people and God alone knows how many downwind are gone. Now the question becomes, what do we do about it? Or rather what does the President, played admirably by Idris Elba, do about it?

There is literally a menu of options. There is a real life full time guy whose job is to follow the President around, all day, every day, with a black book of plans for nuclear war. (They call it “the football.”) The book has every imagined and conceived scenario by which we would launch nuclear missiles at other countries, and whom, and what targets. In the event of such an emergency, the president picks a page as to the response he or she thinks is best warranted, and reads the code to the Strategic Defense Command. The responses range from none at all to all-out nuclear holocaust.

Jake, the deputy secretary, is convinced that the best response is none at all. Even if the missile launch wasn't a mistake, hitting back would light the whole conflagration, antagonize our enemies, lead to further missile launches, and end life on Earth. The general of the Strategic Defense Command points out that if we fail to neutralize our enemies now, while they are still in port and not airborne, we will forever lose the opportunity to do so. The guy with the nuclear football thinks the President should pick from one of two of the most thorough retaliatory responses, eliminate all of our enemies at once, and hope that some of the Americans survive. So really, whether he chooses not to launch at all or launches everything we have, the outcome may be the same. 

And then we have the President. An ordinary guy at his core, as most of them are. A guy with no more moral foundation or understanding of ethical implications than probably any of us have, even if he has to wrestle with bigger questions from time to time. Ultimately he has to decide. What is he going to do? And here is why the ending is controversial. The movie does not tell you. We see the twenty minutes unfold from three different perspectives, the Strategic Defense Command asks the President for his decision, and then the screen fades to black.

Having not found any living people to discuss this with, I have been reduced to seeking opinions online. And honestly, I am not sure what those people were looking for. Everybody seemed to be universally disappointed. Did they want to see Chicago blow up in all its glory? Did they want to see our missiles racing across the planet to eliminate half of life on Earth, or maybe all of it? I don't know. However, I thought the ending was entirely appropriate. Because I think the point that the filmmakers were trying to make was, what would you do?

And this is the question I’ve been asking myself for days. If I were the President, what would I do? I would like to think there is a simple answer and that I would simply refuse to start a nuclear war. But. Hasn't someone else already started one? If I fail to retaliate at all, am I not communicating to our enemies that there simply aren't any consequences? Sure, you can launch your missile at the United States. Just claim it's a mistake and they won't hit you back. Or, as one of the other characters pointed out, this could be a feint. Send one missile, and if we don't retaliate, send fifty more.

(We don't have enough Star Wars missiles to handle fifty more. We only actually have around fifty to begin with, and at our rate of success, 40% of the missiles would get through. That's at least twenty more cities. And that's only if they send fifty more missiles. What if they send a hundred more? The Russians could probably send a hundred more.  China could probably send a hundred more.  North Korea could probably only send fifty, but we don't know that for sure, now do we?)

Okay.  Maybe a limited response just to North Korea would be appropriate.  But that would kill 26 million innocent people who just happen to live in North Korea, to say nothing of most of the population of South Korea and that whole part of the world.  And in the movie, at least, there was a lot of uncertainty as to whether North Korea was the actor.  What if it was Russia, blaming North Korea? What if we killed 26 million North Koreans for nothing? 

The President says that it's like we built a house of dynamite. We knew it was dangerous, but we kept living in it year after year. Somehow we convinced ourselves it would never explode. And the world has only become more complex and hostile since then, and the missiles haven't gone anywhere. The possibility that the bad guys, whoever they be, have their hands on nuclear weapons go up literally every day. So somebody, somewhere, someday, is going to have to make the decision that Idris Elba struggles with.

So again, what would you do? Would you fall back upon the ultimate moral principle and refuse to launch? Great. I like you. But. Somewhere out there is a guy or a gal who believes that our enemies are so evil that they must be eliminated even if that eliminates all life on Earth. (Because of course, then the rapture would happen, and all the good people would go to heaven.) Who is that person? Is he or she in office now? How would you know?

If this scenario were to happen today or tomorrow, we're screwed.  We have a President who wouldn't hesitate for a second to destroy life on Earth because he doesn't seem to believe that anything bad can happen to him personally.  And why should he? Nothing ever has.  He's convicted of rape, he avoids jail.  He is sued and loses, he ties the judgments up in courts for years.  Every weekend he flies to Florida on the taxpayer's dime to play golf while families don't get their SNAP benefits.  (He embezzled the money.  That's why he's fighting this so hard.  We're going to find out the money is gone and he won't be able to explain what happened to it.)  But we elected this guy.  (Yes, I know.  You personally did not vote for him.  But you live in a country with a lot of people who did.)  We elected him again, after all the shit he pulled the first time.  So what does that say about us?  Are we sure we aren't the sort of people who would nuke the whole world?

Anyway.  Still thinking about it.  I hope it never happens.

On Being Fat In America In Our Time

So I'm sorry and pleased at the same time to report that the Office Ghost did not follow us to the new building.  In fact, the new building is both bland and utterly void of psychic energy.  Which is good, in a way (we had a number of people over the last few years abruptly quit with no notice and I can't help but wonder if they Saw Something, or, like in my case, Heard Something).  Plus, with supernatural entities, you just never know what they're gonna do.  I mean, besides scare the bejabbers out of you, which it did to me, twice.  

But, it's also disappointing, in a way.  I for one was very curious, once I realized that I was in fact experiencing something and it wasn't just another case of "Well hey, I'm in a haunted place and I'm not seeing anything, guess I can't see them."  It was because of the Office Ghost that I discovered I can hear them, and what's more, I've been hearing them my whole life.  I just can't see them, for whatever reason.  Hey, I also can't see to read without glasses.  Every person is different.  

Anyway, so long, Office Ghost.  I hope you found what you were looking for, and if not, I hope you scare the bejabbers out of the next tenants, whoever they be. 

Speaking of bejabbers and scaredness, it is the Spooky Season, and it is time once again to think about Mortality.  I mean, if you want.  I don't think it ever hurts to ponder that none of us have unlimited time on Earth and what we still want to do, experience and feel.  If there's something you've been putting off, move that to the top of your list.  You could get hit by a bus and die tomorrow.  Some of us, in fact, have serious medical conditions and are not looking at a lot more years.  I personally was told by a doctor that I'd be dead by February of 2026, so I have to live until at least March so I can flip him off. 

 

That was only the most recent prediction of my demise.  There have been several.  The one before that told me I wouldn't live past 50.  (I was 53 at the time.)  The reason for this is not kidney disease, or diabetes, or hypertension, all of which I have.  The reason is that I'm fat.

Fat. Not a little on the heavy side, not plump, not zaftig, not curvy.  Fat.  I weigh more than 300 pounds.  People usually don't know that and put me in the mid-250s, but anyway, I am fat.  I have been fat since I was, oh, about nine, and I'm going to die fat.  

But wait! screams the panicked, fatphobic Voice of America. There are GLP-1s now!  You can be cured! Uh, back up.  Being fat is not a disease. It is a condition of the body.  There is a range of body types, and I happen to be at one end of it.  Some people are naturally very skinny.  (There's a woman in my office who I swear would disappear if she turned sideways.) Some are fat, and most are in the middle.  There have always been fat people.  We have paintings.  We have letters.  Being fat even used to be super fashionable, back when it meant you were rich and not of poor moral character.  

I have some bad news.  There are no long term studies on users of GLP-1s.  The longest study done tapped out at four years, after which most of the participants had started to regain weight and a whopping 89% of the test subjects had dropped out of the study because they had stopped taking the medication for various reasons.  

Also, GLP-1s are not for everybody.  In my case they blocked absorption of all my mental health meds, sent me flying through a figurative windshield at 95 mph and had me convinced that I was going to have to stop working and go on disability because I could not get a fucking thing done. That was a fun couple of weeks.  I will not be doing that again.  By the way, this can happen to anybody taking any other med for any reason.  Google "Ozempic pregnancies" to see how this works.  If you are taking any other medication for any health condition whatsoever, and your doctor wants you on a GLP-1, you MUST be monitored to make sure your meds are still working.  Do not skip this step.

GLP-1s are only the latest innovations that claim they are going to cure fat people.  The one before that was bariatric surgery, which is still practiced.  However, bariatric surgery patients regain the weight at the same rate as other people who lost weight by any other method.  Within six years, most have regained 50% or more of the weight lost and some regain all of it and more. 

Anyway, I am fat, and I am not going to try to lose weight.  I have already done that and the net result was that I gained it all back plus more.  This is the same net result that about 90% of the population experiences within five years of losing the weight, so people who try to lose weight end up fatter and with poorer muscle mass each and every time.  Plus, there is measurable heart and lung damage, which is almost certainly why fat people supposedly die young.  (I mean, to test that, they would need to find a bunch of fat people who have never tried to lose weight and follow them for twenty years. But there are no such people.) Combine that with the notoriously bad medical care that fat people get, and it's no wonder fat people have a shorter life expectancy.  

Do I wish I'd figured this out when I was in my 20s and only weighed about 180?  Sure.  But Everybody was still telling me I was too fat, so I must not be skinny enough, so I had to keep trying.  I have lost 30 pounds and regained 40-45 about twenty times, by my estimate. I figured out the results were never permanent about ten years ago, and my weight has been stable since then.  Which, considering I've been on antipsychotics for 20 years, is practically a miracle.  (Antipsychotics and antidepressants are notorious for causing weight gain, even when all other factors are controlled.) The only change in my weight that whole time was six months before my knee surgery, when I gained 25 pounds, largely because I couldn't walk.  Then I had the surgery and lost 25 pounds.  Which just goes to show something or other.  

Anyway, I am cool with this.  They make plus size coffins, and even if I weighed 100 pounds I'd still be looking at a shortened life span because of the kidney disease.  

The problem is everybody else.  It is still okay, in certain circles, to make fun of or gossip about fat people.  It is also somehow okay to walk up to a total stranger and give them diet advice. The weight loss industry took in $75 billion last year trying to convince people that if they just follow this plan they're about to sell you, you! too! can lose weight.  They'd stop making all that money if people just shrugged and said, "Well, okay, I'm fat."  So there's a vested interest in keeping the gravy train going.  Anybody who nags somebody to lose weight, puts a kid on a diet, denies somebody medical care because they "just need to lose some weight" (this happens a lot) or puts somebody down because they are not skinny is working for the diet industrial complex.  So are all the temporarily skinny people who get on social media and gush about how they lost ___ number of pounds and if I can do it anyone can!!" as if that's anything that can be predicted.

It's also wholly untrue.  If I told you "I learned to play the bagpipes, and if I can do it anyone can," you'd believe me and take up the bagpipes, right?  Right.  I mean, this may come as a news flash, but all of us can't do everything.  Nobody, for another example, has ever swum like Michael Phelps, and probably no one ever will again.  If Michael Phelps said, "If I won eight gold Olympic medals, anyone can," we'd all laugh at him.  Some people can sing. Some people can write.  Some people are really good with numbers, or logistics, or any number of other things.  But we all don't have to do everything.  I, for example, hire a mechanic to change my oil.  Because they can do it and I can't.

Never assume that other people can do what you can do.  Also, never assume that other people experienced what you experienced.  A black child of a single mom with 3 jobs growing up poor in the Bronx is not going to have the same experience as a rich white child who goes to private schools and has a nanny, and it's ridiculous to assume they do.  (The black child also has a much better chance of being both malnourished and fat.  Money is irrevocably tied to weight gain, or lack thereof.) In fact, just don't assume shit.  If you want to know why a person does something or acts a certain way, try asking them.   

Anyway. I'm fat.  I'm cool with it.  

I just wish the rest of the planet would fucking relax about it, too.  

The Tale of Ozzy Osbourne and the North Dakota State Fair

It’s too bad this blog software doesn’t let you change fonts, because doesn’t that blog title practically scream that it should be dripping blood red letters? And maybe with a scrolling gothic T and a pair of capital Os? It should also have a couple of bats flapping around at the corners. Blogger, you need to improve your graphic interface.

(And Jen, you need to be on another platform, like LiveJournal or Substack or something that can be monetized. Not that I update this thing often enough to be monetized.)

Anyway, we received the sad news today that rock idol Ozzy Osbourne, he of biting the head off a live bat and summoning “demons” (actually, dancers in costumes) onstage, has gone on to the Garden of Beautiful Souls. RIP, Your Ozzness. Mr. Osbourne had probably the craziest 76 years of anyone who has ever walked this planet, and if I die having done half the stuff he did, I hope somebody stopped me fairly early on and got me appropriate treatment. 

I cannot possibly pen a fitting tribute to Mr. Ozz in this space.  I am instead reduced to telling you the above-titled tale. Because really, it needs retelling.

Circa 1984, I was about fifteen years old and in North Dakota for part of the summer with my cousins. They lived in Minot, which is next to the Souris River. It has an air base, a Great Northern Railway hub and a couple of good hospitals, but really, not a whole lot else to recommend it. It does, however, have the North Dakota State Fairgrounds, and it just happened to be mid-July, which is fair time.

You guys probably don’t really remember the Satanic Panic of the early 80s, but I do, and let me tell you, it was quite a thing. It started with this professional hoaxter writing a book about a woman named Michelle, and kind of exploded into the public consciousness with the McMartin Preschool trial in Los Angeles. And to just illustrate how crazy all of this got, three people who (as it turned out) were perfectly innocent ended up getting life sentences because of what a bunch of freaked out adults coached out of two and three year old kids who were still learning English. Really quickly, the story was that all the kids were being sexually abused as part of a Satanic cult. I’m not sure why a Satanic cult; child abuse all by itself is horrible enough.

Lest you think this thing has finally petered out, I was in San Diego in the early 2000s and it was still going on then. There was, in fact, a huge high-profile trial of a mentally divergent man named Dale Akiki. You can Google him if you want. After a seven-week trial, Akiki was acquitted of forty-seven counts of child sexual abuse, torture, attempted murder and animal mutilation. The acquittal was a total shock to prosecutors and absolutely no surprise whatsoever to anybody who was actually following the case.

Among the allegations was that Akiki, who stood about 5’4”, slaughtered a giraffe and an elephant in front of the kids to terrify them into not talking. Mind you, nobody pulled up the carpet to look for blood or animal hair. Nobody even reported a giraffe or an elephant missing. But children don’t lie, apparently. The jury later said the only reason they debated more than a day was that they had to go through forty-seven fucking counts. “Count one. Slaughter of a giraffe. All who think this is utter bullshit.” (Counting.) “Okay. Count two. Slaughter of an elephant.”

(To be fair, they probably also stretched things out because they wanted dinner on the Court’s dime. That happens.)

Back to North Dakota, though. Ahead of the State Fair, rumors were abuzz in Minot. The Satanists were in town and they were looking for ten victims. No, the Satanists had always been in town; they founded the town, carried on in secret since 1886 and they were looking for a hundred victims. Young girls were disappearing on the way home from school. There were secret rituals out on the prairie at midnight. And Ozzy Osbourne was going to play the North Dakota State Fair. People, the level of hysteria was so high that you would have thought the very Devil Himself was coming to town.

I was aware of the rumors in a fuzzy, not-very-important kind of way. I was fifteen and on a long trip away from the one boyfriend, which was dramatic enough to take up most of my attention. Besides, it was North Dakota in the summer. There were water ski trails to be blazed, rafts to be swum to, barbecues to be had. And lots of alcohol to be consumed, too. Not by me, unfortunately. I was too square. Or more to the point, it never would have occurred to me to pour a wine cooler into a clear glass and tell my parents I was drinking a strawberry soda. 

So it happened we were going to be in Minot the day of the Ozzy Osbourne concert. And since it was the State Fair, it wasn’t sold out or anything. You just had to buy a gate ticket. So without our parents knowing what was up (I think my aunt knew, because she pretty much had her finger on the pulse of all things Minot, but she didn’t say anything), we older kids made arrangements to go to the State Fair that night and see Ozzy.

I mean, the atmosphere was electric. There was a fairly large police presence. You’d expect a lot of Goths dressed in black at a show like this but it was North Dakota. Everyone had on jeans and floppy t-shirts. I think I wore a pair of earrings because it was a special occasion. But the excitement was palpable. Would Ozzy do a human sacrifice of a virgin right there on the stage? Would he summon the Devil? Would all the Satanists show up and start killing people right when he finished “Crazy Train”?

Uh. No.

You guys, I’m sorry to tell you this, but Ozzy was so blitzed on his substance of choice that he could barely stand up, much less sing. I mean he was terrible. All the colored lights and flame effects from the stage were wasted because it was sunny as high noon. (The sun doesn’t really go down in North Dakota in the summertime; it gets twilighty dark around eleven and starts getting light again around four.) The summoned “demons” either didn’t show up or they missed their cue because they were smoking something back stage. At one point Ozzy tried to get the crowd clapping along to the beat. “Put your hands together like this, mates! That’s the way!” Nary a Devil or Hell got uttered. I don’t even think he raised his voice.

My cousin's friend leaned over and said, “This guy is boring.” I said, “Yeah. You guys wanna go on the Ferris Wheel again?” “Nah. Let's do bumper cars” And so we left. Ten minutes into the set.

Hey, I'm sorry it's anticlimactic. The rumors about the Satanists were pretty anticlimactic, too. As far as anybody knows, not a single person was killed, raped, kidnapped or otherwise inconvenienced that whole weekend. Though a couple of people were ticketed for public intoxication.

Anyway, farewell to the great Ozzy Osbourne. I did hear that he got better. 

American Pride

Apparently there was a big meltdown of software in Europe and all the flights were canceled and something bad happened on a runway in Italy and a flight in Chicago sat on the tarmac for three hours with no A/C and a child almost died.

Which, you know, is not good news. And it seems like the airlines get it wrong more often than they get it right. But I just wanted to say, sometimes American Airlines does get it absolutely right.

Ferexample: I was about 20, I was on this trip to Europe. Things had not gone well. Among other things, I had a head injury, and was still walking around, drinking and sleeping and not seeking medical treatment, like a fool. (I repeat, I was about 20.)

 My bipolar disorder was also just about ready to get out of the shed and haul ass at 95 mph over icy lakes and distant fields without a plan or a helmet. And I was on a trip with a friend of mine, and we were fighting, and Stuart Adamson kissed me, and I spent way too much time on trains.

(Yes, this is the same trip where I got arrested in Sweden. But that’s another story.)

I got off the plane from Sweden and I was in Atlanta and I had no idea what to do next. I went to the airline check-in desk and told them what was up. I wasn’t sure there was even any provision for somebody flying back several days early to the wrong airport. The clerk seemed a little perplexed, too. But after getting on her phone and talking to three or four people, she said, “Well, I can’t get you all the way to Phoenix, but if you don’t want to stay here tonight there’s a flight leaving to Tulsa in half an hour, and from there you should be able to get at least as far as Minneapolis.”

Minneapolis = closer to Phoenix than Atlanta, so I was in. I waited about five hours in Tulsa and got on the next plane to Minneapolis. I did not have very much money. I was trying to figure out if I could afford one of the cheap burgers at the airport restaurant (no McDonald’s in terminals back then) without breaking the $20 I was saving for a cab when the lady at the check-in desk asked me how long I’d been awake and had I had anything to eat recently. I didn’t know, and no. She gave me a couple of food coupons and a blanket for the flight.

I was in a middle seat on the flight out of Tulsa. I was in a middle seat just about the whole way, and it’s a good thing I was smaller then, but not that much smaller, and it’s a good thing the seats were bigger then, but not that much bigger. Anyway, the guy in the window seat said, “You look really tired. How long have you been flying?” (I think it was only about 48 hours at that point. And miles to go before I slept.) “Look, let’s switch seats so you can get some sleep.”

Reader, I kid you not. This guy, a fiftyish Hispanic banker looking type, swapped his window seat for my middle. I fell asleep before takeoff and didn’t wake up until we touched down in Minneapolis. Alas, I did not get his name. He deserved a bouquet of flowers. Not that I had money for flowers.

I got off the plane in Minneapolis and they steered me onto a flight to Denver. Denver = closer to Phoenix than Minneapolis. The clerk in Denver gave me more food coupons and got me on a flight to Salt Lake City. Salt Lake City = closer to Phoenix than Denver.

We got to Salt Lake City a little before 9 pm. There was only one more flight out just after eleven and it went to Las Vegas. The flight was completely full and all they could say was that they’d try to get me on it. Manic, headachey me who wasn’t acting rational in any case burst into tears. 

I’m sorry, but have you people ever SEEN the Salt Lake City airport? It could easily be the last straw for anybody, regardless of their mental condition. It’s the blue and orange paneling. No sane designer, even at the height of the 1970s, would erect blue and orange paneling and just leave it there for thirty years. There are laws against this sort of thing. It’s cruel and unusual decor.

The clerk was, I think, kind of appalled. Crying in the airport is a faux pas, apparently. After she shooed me away, I think she went back into the employee break room and worked some airline voodoo. Clearly sacrifices were made and blood was spilled because I got the last middle seat on the last flight out of Salt Lake City. 

I landed in Las Vegas at three in the morning and said to myself, “Self,” I said, “I can handle this. Flashing lights and tinkly noises. No blue and orange paneling. This is okay. This will work.”

From there I got on the first flight to Phoenix from Las Vegas. Phoenix = closer to Phoenix than Las Vegas. We touched down at seven a.m. and I was home. I’d made it. I was still alive and I needed a shower and I really needed some mood stabilizers (though I didn’t know that yet) and I was in Phoenix. I was so tired I gave the cabby my last $20 and didn’t wait for my $12 change.

Anyway.

Horror stories about airlines happen. If they happen more often than they used to, it’s probably because we have more flying public, a greater profit motive, and more incentive for things to go wrong. But that particular three-day period in 1990, American Airlines and pretty much the whole rest of the universe took care of me. I landed safely with a full stomach and a major concussion. 

I mean, it was a fun summer, what with the memory loss and the bipolar disorder and the brain going 90 mph and the inability to focus and starting the process of breaking up with my one boyfriend (he clung to me like a barnacle to a ship, in one instance literally; I was going 30 mph before he finally let go of the car).

But. Before all that, the window seat and the blanket out of Tulsa.

If you guys have a story about how somebody did you a favor when you really needed one, gave you a break, hired you for a job, or went out of their way to make your life a little bit easier, I implore you to tell people. Any people. Lots of people. Because we need stories like this. Life and social media are full of horror stories and if we’re not careful, we’ll start believing that that’s all there is. And if you owe a thank you to a person or an airline or even some faceless corporate drone that did you a solid, it’s not too late. Send flowers. Or a small gift. Or even just a nice card.

Mini-Post: Caterpillars and Space Aliens

I found a caterpillar crawling around in the office hallway. No idea where he came from.  I expect he hitchhiked into the office on a package or something, because we're on the sixth floor and that's a lot of climbing.  Anyway, I got a piece of paper, scooped him up, took him downstairs in the elevator and shooed him into the garden. 

I realize that normal people don't do stuff like this.

But it got me to thinking: From the caterpillar's perspective, he was tooling around minding his own business when some alien force picked him up, stepped into an elevator (an advanced technology he would have no knowledge of) and took him out into a garden. Suddenly he was on the ground with dirt and plants, and there was plenty of food and all was well.

But what just happened? What was my purpose in picking him up? He had no idea. He only knew that it was happening and was probably very scared, even though it ended happily.  (I assume.  Discounting the possibility of a hungry robin or other garden predators.) 

So there are these stories about aliens abducting humans. People miss time, they have vague memories of being on a spaceship, and wake up somewhere safe. 

Stay with me here.  Maybe the alien noticed that Johnny Human had a brain tumor or some other medical problem that would kill him in short order, of which he was not aware. Not that the alien (or more likely, the alien AI; traveling from other planets is awfully hard on biological organisms) was out looking for good deeds to do, but then one presented itself.  Maybe the alien scooped him up, fixed the problem and then put him back down. Kind of like I did with the caterpillar.

I mean, the caterpillar probably didn't know yet that there was no food up there or that he was going to die if he stayed there, but I knew and I fixed it.

In short, maybe we should give these abducting aliens the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they have good intentions. If not, maybe they're at least checking us out as a species to see what makes us tick, in hopes that if we keep destroying our planet, they can relocate us somewhere safe. 

Probably not on a piece of paper.