That Dot

Look at that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds.

Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.

It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.

“Hey Brogin, you want my pork?”

So yeah, I have an obsession with food. Maybe that’s why the root word of obese is the same?

My relationship with food is probably not healthy. I’m to the point where I’ll eat just about anything; and almost certainly try something new once. I’m afriad I’ll end up severly overweight and require assistance to poof. They’ll have to take a wall down from my house just to get me to the hospital for a last-minute / last-chance surgery. I don’t want to end up that way. As a kid, I promised myself I would never get fat – ever. Why can’t I be picky about my food? Why can’t I be allergic to wheat or nuts? That would severely limit my available intake and subsequent weight gain.

I wish I could eat as much as I want and not gain a pound. If vomiting didn’t repulse me so much, I would do that. I would have no shame in telling my dinner guests that I was excusing myself to purge in the toilet. And most likely, I would come back and eat more.

The other problem is, I hate excercising. All types. I have never found a fun activity that I can enjoy AND lose weight. I’ve tried sports, biking, swiming (I love swimming, but have no access to a pool), the gym, running; all those things. It always leaves me drained, sweaty and uncomfortable. And I really don’t have the time that I would need and want to spend. I know it’s all a big pile of excuses, but it’s really how I feel.

What is a fat kid at heart supposed to do to keep his failing image?

Sigh. Where’s that ice cream?

My life, in 8 billion words or less

I was born at St. Joseph’s Hospital in Milwaukee, Wisconsin on June 12, 1982 at 10:29am. For the first 14 years of my life, I lived at 2844 South 68th St, Milwaukee, Wisconsin. My aunt still lives there.

I had an amazing childhood. My best friend – a year younger – lived next door. Him being a year younger allowed me to develop and practice my ‘leadership’ and ‘brotherly’ skills early. After bonding with him, a few new kids moved in down the block – a perfect mix for a perfect neighborhood of friends.

We lived on one of those typical Milwaukee blocks: mostly rectangle houses, with a few duplexes, a couple two-stories, and an alleyway to separate them all. The alley became the main artery – the path that connected all of my relationships with my home. Even though I can still remember quite a bit about my past, I will always wish I could remember more. (I remember once while I was tripping on some random drug, I recalled an obscure dream I had when I was a kid in it’s entirety. Very surreal.)

All of the kids on my block were best friends with each other, and best friends with me. We always hung out when we could, we had our forts and club houses and pre-defined roles when we played games. It was absolute bliss. I never new any worse. When I would come home to my family, I was always welcomed with love and warmth. Sappy, but true, and I couldn’t be more thankful. What I didn’t know about life at that point could fill a thousand football stadiums: college-lined notebooks filled with complex problems that would eventually tarnish my view of the world. I think I might have an obsession, in fact, with building a time machine that could return me to that time – at that age – while still retaining the knowledge of life. That way, I won’t make all of the mistakes I’ve made after having learned the hard way already.

Anyway, it was only until my sister was born did I get my first taste of unbridled reality. I love my sister to death. I would do anything for her, just as one would expect. But having the title of ‘only-child’ revoked is somewhat traumatizing, especially for a 7-year-old. I had nine months to prepare, and was able to fully understand what was happening, so I wasn’t too caught off guard. But my life as I knew it was over. No longer was I the only source of love an affection, I was now the brother. The ‘big’ brother, in fact. I loved it and hated it all at the same time. I remember my mom asking me once if I thought that I received less attention since my sister was born. I said no, but really meant yes. I almost regret saying no, but I think it worked out for the best anyway, as I certainly didn’t want to take any attention from her. I was grown up enough, and had a life to live on my own. I wasn’t going to be the center of attention forever, so I might as well grow up already.

My family was raised Catholic. I never bought into it – ever, actually – but just kinda rolled with it. I knew it meant a lot to my mom, her parents, and her beliefs. Most of the time it didn’t get in the way, but there were several Saturdays and Sundays that I wished I was at home instead of church. Anyway, this also led to a defined list of words I was never to say. The usuals of course, but also words like retarded, or ‘shut-up’ were not allowed. I remember the first time I broke these rules though, and it was a feeling I have yet to experience again. I was at school, elementary school – probably second or third grade – on the playground. I was being called names like usual, but this time I decided enough was enough. I fought the urge long enough, and I was ready to say it. I took a breath, stopped in my tracks and yelled ‘Shut Up!”. It was the most amazing sense of self I would ever experience. It felt so good to express myself in such a unknown way. Granted, just yelling shut up in retaliation was no feat by any means, it was the beginning of a long journey of entitlement. A steep hill that I would eventually get stuck on several times. I still struggle with ‘how I SHOULD feel’ versus ‘how they WANT me to feel’. But for the most part, that was the first time I really broke the outer layer of the bubble I had grown up in. A protective shield my parents had set up for me without me even knowing. It took a lot to get prepared for the harsh reality out there, but I was ready for it, and I think I took it all pretty well.

A year later or so, I received my first and only ‘detention’. I was on the playground at recess, hanging around with the girls as usual. We usually stuck by a corner area that we could call our own. Along one of the walls were two large windows that had been boarded up and sealed off with caulk. Well before recess that day, and unknown to me, a fresh layer of silicone was applied to these seals. I rested my hand on the sill and slid my fingers right into the goop. As I was pulling my hand from the mess, a teacher’s aide came up behind me and asked me if I was playing in the sealant. I tried explaining to her that it was an accident, but she didn’t believe me and said, “I really think you’re going to have to have a detention.” I immediately felt my stomach drop to the floor and could feel the hot tears welling up in the corners of my eyes. I couldn’t believe it. The nerd. The kid who was always picked on. The teacher’s pet. Me. Detention? How was that possible? After finding out that my punishment was with the meanest teacher in the school, I was ready to end it all.

This teacher had a reputation of forcing kids to stand on one foot, while holding textbooks in both hands and on the remaining foot. I was scared out of my mind. When I arrived for my appointment, it was to my surprise that she said, “Just go sit over there until the bell rings.” One of the easiest things I’ve done so far! No sweat. I could handle life if it was this easy!

Although I love my dad more than anything, back then he had a very short temper. I was scared of him. Terrified to make him upset. Getting bad grades, getting in trouble at school, fighting with my friends were all grounds for a good yell. He would never hit me, and has never to this day. And it wasn’t even the yelling I was afraid of. No, I respected him so much that my biggest fear of my father was him being disappointed in me. Having to see the look on his face and the tone of his voice when I did something to disappoint them was enough to break me. And it did on several occasions, until I learned my lessons or avoided those situations completely.

All in all, I did very well in elementary school. I had a good following of friends, and even a crush or two. The funny part about that: all of my crushes were other boys. I didn’t know any better, of course, and just thought that was normal. There were pretty girls too, so I guess you could say I was just appreciating the beauty of my fellow human beings. I didn’t really learn what it was to be ‘gay’ until later, and boy did that complicate things.

To be continued…

Stability

I wish I was one of those people who could say, “My life is stable.” Instead, it is anything but stable. I want to get to a point where I can relax and know there isn’t some guy out there – probably in business attire – wondering where my payment is, or filing form 435u which will send one of my accounts into collection. I want to be able to laugh at those ‘credit score’ ads; instead I frown, knowing mine is far worse. I want to be able to drive by a car dealer knowing I could be approved for financing for any car on the lot. And be able to afford the insurance for it.

In all honesty, where I am at in my life now is not where I thought I’d be. I pictured myself financially secure (and rising). I pictured my business to be the greatest up-and-coming entrepreneurship in history. I saw myself living in a loft in New York or Seattle and driving a hybrid. I would have a wonderful sense of fashion, a tight group of friends, and a keen sense of the future. Those were all goals I set for myself when I was very young.

Back in middle school, I skipped the entire 8th grade. My grade point average for 6th and 7th grades was so high, that instead, I was able to help set up the couple hundred new Macs the school just bought with grant money. During the four years of high school, I actually worked for the school district I was taught in. By 10th grade, I had a master key to every locked door in every school. My senior year, I signed up for the work study program with myself, as I was self-employed with several promising contracts.

So what happened? Why was I able to set myself up for success so early, but yet fall so hard? There was one decision I made that I will always remember as a bad choice, yet never regret. When I was 20, I decided to drop out of college and move myself – and everything I owned (which could just about fit into my car) – to Florida. What could be so ‘amazing’ so as to convince me to essentially throw away all that I worked so hard for? Love. Yup, stupid, wonderful, impossible love.

For so long I have wanted to love and be loved. I never wanted to date, I just wanted to get married. To me, dating someone was just a waste of time. I always thought I’d be able to tell if someone I met was ‘the one’ and we’d both instantly know. I guess that’s what growing up on 80′s and 90′s television will do to someone. My idea of love was so far skewed that I ended up messing up all the goals and promises I made to myself. By the time I arrived in Florida, my new-found “love” was already one-sided. At that point, I could either pack up my car again and drive home with my tail between my legs, or struggle back to the top again and try to make the best of it. I think you can guess which choice I made. This began an almost predictable series of bad decisions in the years to come.

It’s much easier to reach the top after you’ve had 12 years of schooling and social learning. To get back up from the bottom is just about impossible. Today, I am still clawing and climbing. I’ve gone a slightly different direction than I had originally planned, but still trying desperately to get to the top. My idea of love has come and gone, and left me drained and exhausted. I’m a lost soul now; a wandering and whimpering child that will never be the same.

I guess it’s all for the best though. I would’ve never learned as many life lessons as I did. Doing things the hard way always has it’s benefits. I’m still an optimistic person – it’s the only thing left that keeps me going. Even though so much has already gone wrong with my life, and there are so many wounds and broken glasses to fix, I still believe one day, my hard work and bad decisions will meet in the middle. One day I will be free, and find those things that will make me happy.

One day.

Amusement Park Etiquette

The thing about Florida is there’s always plenty of do. If you make your way over to Orlando, you’d have a tourist-induced aneurysm. But there are a few cheap (relatively) places to go in the Tampa area too. It’s all in how you look at it. But there are several things I’ve noticed that run rampant throughout each place. One by one, they knock blocks off my ‘fun-meter’ until I’m left with a pile of rubble, a headache, and a bad attitude.

Slow walkers. I know it’s probably your first time here, and you want to “take it all in”. But seriously, get the fuck out of my way. There are ‘unseen’ slow lanes in the pedestrian world – USE THEM. By the time I get from point A to point B, I am sweaty and worn out from the maze-like weaving I’ve had to do because you feel it’s necessary to stop and take a picture of everything you see.

I’m going to stop…. HERE. If I run into one more person because they’ve decided to stop  in the middle of walking traffic, I’m going to scream. It’s always the three same people: the lady with the triple-wide stroller, the middle-aged man with the upside-down map, and the group of tourists from Indonesia who can’t read the signs. If you really need to stop that bad, please take an extra few seconds and pull your party out of the way. They purposely make the lanes of traffic 20 feet wide so there is plenty of room to do so. By the way, season ticket holders don’t need a fucking map.

Obnoxiousness in the queue lines. Waiting in line for an hour and a half for a ride that lasts about a minute and ten seconds is crazy enough. I know it gets hot, and the anticipation of being upside down for a split second is just eating holes in your brain, but CHILL OUT. You’ll get there. I promise. Please don’t: play kid-games like ‘red hands’ or play ‘put-the-leaf-down-your-shirt’; sit on the hand rail and try to scoot down every time the line moves; sit on the ground facing the other way and create a 30 foot gap in the line; decided not to progress the line because you’d rather stand in front of the fan; invade my personal space in such a way that if I turned around I could make-out with you; whisper about me to your buddy – I can hear you.

Fake screaming. It happens everytime. Finally after hours in the heat, you’re on the ride. The belts are strapped, the thumbs are up, and you’re on your way. Up the first hill. Just hit the top… then WHAM! Screeeeeeeaaaaamm…. uh lady, we’re still making our way up the lift hill. Put your hands down and SHUT THE FUCK UP. By the time we hit the tunnels, she’s at full bore. I’ve never heard such a noise come out of a human before, and when the ride is over, my head is ready to explode. Save your shriek for slumber parties and keg-stands.

Fat riders. Obese people can’t fit in regular roller coaster rides. We all know it, and they know it. We also know the world is getting fatter, so there’s no end in sight to it. So to cope, ride manufacturers have installed specialized seats in the middle of the ride to accommodate the “slightly plump” folk. They’ve done it in airplanes, now they do it for rollercoasters. No big deal. And it’s clearly marked on every ride – “Persons with a chest size of at lease XX are required to ride in rows 5 and 6″. So if I have to wait for your fatass to try to squeeze into the seat, pull down your shoulder harness (to the point where your skinny friend is using his foot to help compress your blubber), and strap your ass in – only to realize whoops, I guess I can’t fit – I’m going to be pissed. Now the ride has to shut down, get the fatass to row 6, move the other rider to the back, and start again. By the time we’re all done, you’ve wasted 10 more minutes of everyone’s precious park time. Face it: you’re fat, and need special seating. Not that big of a deal. Just follow the rules.

Park-hired photographers. Boy those guys really want to take your picture. I mean REALLY. They will stand in the most narrow passage in the park – two wide – and trample even the quickest passers-by. “Would you like a picture??” No thanks, as with everyone in the park, I brought my own camera. That allows me to take free pictures. Digitally. Screw you and your 20-pack for $100.

Oh man, there are so many more … I could be here all day. But these pretty much sum up the biggest of them all. Please folks, PLEASE just use common sense. It’ll make everyone’s life so much better!

Beach Etiquette

I try to go to the beach as much as I can. It’s free, relaxing, and makes me colored. It also can be a great way to people-watch, albeit from a distance. However I have noticed that other beach-goers tend to annoy me more than ever these days. It may just be the summer crowd, or maybe I’m just getting old. But I feel that if a few common sense rules were followed, the experience would be much more enjoyable.

My space is not your space. When I arrive to the beach, I pick a spot that has plenty of distance – left and right – between the next half-naked person. Never a maximum, but a minimum of 10 feet. I think that’s fair. But there are two things people violate that make me want to pack up and go sulk in my air-conditioning. First, don’t plop your shit down within 3 feet of me. In any direction. I don’t want to be able to smell your SPF 90 and be able to count the sunspots on your neck. Second, when you’re “picking up seashells” to do god-only-knows-what-with, please don’t STEP OVER ME to do so. There are miles and miles and miles of Florida beach to go around, and billions of crustaceans for you to choose from. The pink one that happens to be three inches to the left of my thigh is NOT up for grabs. You might as well just lay your fat ass down right next to me, and have a wonderful conversation about the origins of sand.

I own that strip of water. When I’m in the water, I feel I temporarily own the rights to the strip of water as wide as my beach chair and towel occupy. Feel free to swim through (but not too slowly) and be on your way. But do not swim into my zone and wade in my water and stare at me. And don’t you ever try to inconspicuously drift ever closer to me and attempt to have a conversation. It’s weird, awkward, and unnecessary. If I wanted to talk to someone on the beach, I wouldn’t be purposely swimming neck-deep in shark infested water trying to avoid humanity. What would we even talk about? The water temperature? How sunny it is? Save that for the occasional encounter at the grocery store, please.

Please don’t flaunt your fat. Look, it’s the beach. I get it, it’s hot and a great way to add some tint to your skin. But for those people that would normally park in the handicapped area, and use a power scooter to get around Walmart, please do not wear a bikini. In fact, I think it’s insane for swimwear companies to even MAKE bikini’s to fit a size 60 woman. And it’s not just the ladies. Men, unless you’re under 35, keep the bikini briefs at home. Save it for the bathtub or something. And if you INSIST on being obnoxiously disgusting, PLEASE find a new way to lower your body to the ground. An obese person, in a bikini, bending over, is like watching an alien’s asexual reproduction routine in slow motion. Especially if you have sweat marks. Yuck.

Who goes fishing at the beach? Don’t you have an overpass you can throw your line off of? Or can’t you rent a boat and fish like a normal person? Why do you insist on ruining everyone’s fun time by dressing like a terrorist and throwing your bated hook into the open swimming area? If I get snagged by your line, you can rest assured I will wrap that fishing wire around your neck and throwyou in to die like the very bait you murdered just moments before. Not only is it a safety hazard, but your “chum” is attracting all kinds of hideous sea creatures that I’d hoped I’d never have to encounter. The feeling of a school of fish swimming THROUGH you is enough to think about rewriting your will.

I hate that station. Wear headphones please. I have yet to find one group of people with a battery or solar powered radio playing a station that I enjoy. Why is it always the group that listens to rap or hip hop or country the one to blare the volume past MAX? No one here likes that song but you. Keep it to yourself! No polluting.

Did you really just set up a tent? I’ve seen this twice now, and it boggles my mind. I understand the need to block some of the sun… but that’s why they make umbrellas! Wouldn’t it be ungodly hot inside that dome after about two and a half minutes? To go through all the effort to set up (and eventually take down) that green mess, all for 45 minutes of weirdness, just boggles my mind. The embarassment I would go through if I were with that fellow would be unbearable. A tent? Come on.

To me, all this seems common sense. I’m sure I’d be a dead man if I were forced to do any of these things at gunpoint. Alas, this will continue and most likely get worse as time goes on. People must think of the beach as a remote extension of their backyard. However, if my neighbors were like any of these people, I’d surely move.