A lot of paperwork comes out in the open when both of your parents die at the same time. Wills are read, insurance policies are combed over, titles and deeds are inspected, houses put in trust get noticed.
I was not anywhere close to being in my parents' wills, which is fine with me. I wanted nothing from them at the end of their lives and would accept nothing from them in death. That is probably easier to say since they were never rich. I can only speculate about how strong my principles would be had they been billionaires. I have no qualms about taking possession of my grandfather's house because he gave it to me, not them.
Then came the insurance. My parents never had personal life insurance. Mostly because they were covered by their church. It started when my father started working there, and I was added right after I was born. Apparently, my father tried to remove me, but he was never the policy owner. The church was, and removing a child from a life insurance policy out of spite kind of went against their brand. I was what they call an irrevocable beneficiary. I could only be removed if I agreed. I never knew anything about it, so I never agreed to anything.
Since my mother died at the same time as my father, the only surviving beneficiaries are my brother and me. Since the church had no idea that my brother was our parents' favorite, they always had everything divided equally among anyone left alive. What all this means is that, yet again, my parents have unintentionally left me something, despite their best efforts. And since it is far less than a billion dollars, I don't have to struggle with redefining my value system. I suppose the sensible thing would be to put the money into fixing up my grandparents' house. But that would help it sell and then I would profit off my father's insurance. The second I was told a check was eventually coming my way, I decided to donate it.
The obvious question is to whom. There are plenty of great charities out there. I would prefer to give this money to an organization of which my parents would never approve. When it comes to charities, my first thought is always groups that help children, like the Children's Defense Fund or the Elizabeth Glaser Pediatric AIDS Foundation, or something about cancer, like Gilda's Club. But none of those would piss off my parents. They were pretty terrible at raising children, but they did not hate children. In fact, their church has done its fair share in helping children's charities.
Since they were Republicans, I could donate to the DNC, but that would be like flushing it down the toilet. Before Republicans went full crazy, Democrats were just the other side of the same coin. It is only a matter of time before Democrats fall off their own deep end. My parents would roll over in Hell if I gave their money to Democrats, but other than that, I would get no satisfaction out of it. Both the RNC and DNC are corrupt corporations that could best serve the nation by having a going out of business sale and shuttering their doors. I think I would rather set the money on fire and watch it burn than give it to any American political group.
I could give it to a Chinese political group. That would really make their heads explode. But Chinese politics are almost as corrupt as American politics.
I could just give it to some random homeless people, like Don Ameche and Ralph Bellamy in Coming To America. My parents would never approve of that in a million years. They would say that handouts only make people lazy. I don't know about that, but I would worry about what the random homeless person did with the money. My culture has sufficiently programmed me to think that it would go to drugs or booze, when it could just as likely go to food and shelter. Or more likely, for all I know. I have no personal experience with homelessness. At the same time, I firmly believe that once you give something to someone, it is theirs to do with as they wish. How they use it is really none of my business.
Unfortunately for me, though fortunate for society, there are no homeless people around here. They almost have to exist. No country can be wholly housed. But since we are a bunch of heathen socialists, we don't let our fellow human beings die in the gutter. This country has too many safety nets for anyone to fall through the cracks, unless they are absolutely determined to do so. I have no idea where I could even find a homeless person.
I will probably go with something in the LGBT category. My parents were never the most homophobic people in the world, but they were hardly inclusive. They did not want to lynch gay people, but they never supported marriage equality. If there is a reputable charity that centers on young lesbian girls, that would be ideal. Unfortunately, that also sounds like a bad porn movie I saw once.
I think this might be one of those first world problems you hear about. Woe is me. However shall I give away this free money? But I want it to go somewhere useful. And I really want to be petty about it.
Showing posts with label death & destruction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death & destruction. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 11, 2022
Monday, May 2, 2022
It May Be Worth Something Someday
My grandfather died when I was 16. Not coincidentally, that was the same year my parents and I had our final falling out. He was a decent buffer. My grandmother died almost two years earlier. She was the true mediator in the family. She never took any shit from anybody, so none of us were allowed to get carried away while she was alive. My grandfather inherited the mantle after his wife died, but he could never pretend to be impartial. Everyone knew I was his favorite. He was too good at being a grandfather to ever actually come out and say that I was his favorite grandchild, but we could all tell. And the feeling was mutual. He was always my favorite person. There was a time in my childhood when I wanted my grandparents to adopt me. They never did, unfortunately.
Music was important to my grandfather. Other than a few years in the army, he was a professional musician his entire adult life. He did not come from a family of musicians and often wondered if he had been switched at birth. When he got married and had a son, he wanted to pass on his musical knowledge. That son had no interest in learning to play anything, and took his life into a decidedly different direction from his father. When his son had a son, that son was encouraged to play sports. It looked like my grandfather was destined to be the sole musician in the family.
Then his son had a daughter. I was born to be a dancer. That was simply the way it was. As a dancer, music is exceptionally important to me, particularly rhythm. My grandfather taught me Every Good Boy Does Fine and Good Boys Do Fine Always. I taught myself scales on the piano, using the hunt and peck whole-whole-half-whole-whole-whole-half method. As soon as I was tall enough to reach everything, my grandfather had me on his drum set and taught me everything I know about playing drums. He bought me my first set, which was the only reason my parents tolerated it. I can see where having a child who plays drums might be a little annoying, but they could not forbid it without disrespecting their elder. Fortunately for everyone, my lessons were at my grandfather's house. Fortunately for my grandmother, my grandfather's music room was in the basement.
As a musician, my grandfather never made anything close to Paul McCartney money, though he was hardly in the garage band tax bracket. Money was a taboo subject in my family, but I think I was always aware that my grandparents had more than my parents. I simply saw that as the natural order of things. The older you were, the more money you had. My grandparents lived well. My parents had everything they needed. I had less than everybody.
Not that I grew up in poverty. We always had a roof over our heads, food in the kitchen, two cars in the garage, and plenty of clothes. Everything I ever wanted was an extravagant luxury, according to my parents. Except new clothes. New clothes were welcomed and encouraged. As long as they were respectable. “No daughter of mine is dressing like a cheap whore.” Evidently, an acceptable response is not, “How about an expensive whore?”
My parents were never rich, but they were several neighborhoods away from poor. My father was the pastor of his church, which pays more than it really should. He was also on the board of directors at their evangelical headquarters in Chicago, or whatever the sectarian version is called. Probably church council. Though he only went to Chicago a few times each year, he got paid to be on the board as if it was a real job. He also had an expense account for travel, both out of state and around town. Lutherans do not exactly take a vow of poverty.
For as long as I can remember, I was aware that many people had far less than we did. If I wanted a new toy, I was told about the starving children in Africa who had to play with sticks and rocks. If I wanted to eat something other than what was offered, I was told about the starving children in Africa who had to eat spiders and worms. For the longest time, I had a typically American misconception about Africa, given to me by people who had never set foot on the continent. Many years later, I had a boyfriend from South Africa who never even saw a jungle until he was an adult.
My grandparents grew up during the Great Depression. In the 1920s, my grandmother's family was rich, by any definition. At the beginning of the 1930s, they were homeless. She went from changing clothes for every meal when she was a child to sleeping in the family car when she was a teenager. She knew what it meant to lose everything, and made sure I knew how much I had. Most of my friends' parents probably had higher incomes than mine, but I knew as few rich people as I knew poor people. My childhood was deep in the heart of middle class.
I had to beg and plead with my parents for every little thing, except clothes. I think that might have been more about keeping up appearances than anything else. It was important to my parents, especially my mother, that we all looked like we could afford to live higher on the hog. How I dressed reflected on them, whereas their social circle never knew or cared if I could play Richie Cole's “Shaker Song” solo. I paid for anything music related that was not from my grandfather because my parents thought it was an extravagant hobby, despite the fact that my grandfather was a professional musician most of his life. When people complain about being forced to take piano lessons as a child, I wish my parents had done that. They paid for everything related to all of my brother's sports, when it was obvious that he would never come close to being a professional athlete, but there was never enough money for what I would turn into a career. It is true that my taste in musical instruments leans toward the better equipment. I had a Selmer series III alto sax in high school when there is absolutely nothing wrong with a cheaper Yamaha. But even after I started making money at my “hobby” and my brother was getting cut from one team or another, they could only afford to pay for his extracurricular activities. I left before college, but they were never going to pay for that either. At least for me. They paid every dime of my brother's education.
My brother was unequivocally their favorite child. He was the oldest, their golden boy who followed their rules – as far as they knew – and their only son. He was the only one who could carry on the family name, at least directly. There are probably a million people with our name, but our branch of the tree is not getting any bigger. My grandfather was the only son of his parents and he only had one son, who only had one son. Of course, daughters can carry on the family name in this century, but if I had a child tomorrow, she would have my Chinese name. If not for my grandfather, I would have rejected my English name a long time ago.
I try not to hold any of that against my brother. It is no more his fault that he was our parents' favorite than it is my fault that I was our grandfather's favorite. It was compatibility, personality, and mutual interests.
What I do hold against my brother is that he knew I was in my grandfather's will and never told me.
When my parents died last month, everything they owned was catalogued, assessed, and put under a microscope. No one cares about your thumbtack collection, but lawyers look at property, and the IRS always wants their cut. My parents' house and pretty much everything they did not give to their church went to my brother. Fair enough. I was dead to them, so there was no reason I would be in their will. Had they felt guilty and left me something, I would probably reject it on principle anyway.
An interesting point here is that, in the United States, when most people want to leave an adult child out of their will, they either specifically mention the person by name and indicate that they get nothing, or give the person a single dollar to show that they were not accidentally left out. The purpose is so the child cannot contest the will under the assumption that they were left out by mistake. In some states, but not Minnesota, you can put a clause in your will that someone only gets whatever they get if they do not contest the will.
Instead of doing any of that, my parents showed how big their balls were. Since I was dead to them, they never mentioned me in their will at all. Why would you put a dead person in your will? They either went against their lawyer's advice, or better yet, their lawyer never knew I existed. Legally, this leaves their will wide open for me to contest. I think they either knew I would want nothing to do with them and their stuff, or they genuinely thought of me as dead and I never crossed their minds when writing up the will. Either way, they gambled that I would not take it to court. And they were correct. What is theirs was never meant to be mine. Contesting the will would only hurt my brother, not them. He probably needs it more than I do.
After all the people with suits and clipboards sorted through the cobwebs, something no one was expecting was that my parents owned two houses. Except that they did not. One of those houses was my grandfather's, and he absolutely did not leave it to them. As it turns out, he left it to me. I was a minor when he died, so it went into a trust under my father's control. Naturally, no one told me. After I was dead to my parents, they must not have seen a reason to tell a dead child that her grandfather wanted to take care of her since her parents refused. A few years after I was out of the picture, they tried to sell the house. But it seems that real estate agents have some kind of rule against selling houses for people who do not actually own them. After that, who knows what their plan was. The house was in their will, so they knew it was still there. Leaving it to my brother was not a smart move, especially since he knew it was not theirs to give away. I have no idea what legal consequences he might face. I am told he has cooperated with everyone and never personally did anything illegal. By trying to screw me over, my parents kind of screwed him over, too. His childhood memories of that house are now tarnished by legal bullshit that he never asked to have dumped on him.
When the dust started to settle, I started to realize that I own a house in Minnesota. Obviously, I have to sell it. I like the idea of keeping it, but the property taxes will not go away just because I live elsewhere. And I would need someone to take care of the place. I could rent it out, but finding responsible tenants is difficult, especially from the other side of the world, and I would still be responsible for maintenance. I have great memories of that house. Some of the best moments of my childhood took place in that house. I would hate to supplant those memories with tales of clogged drains and broken pipes. Selling the last thing my grandfather ever did for me might be difficult, but I thought it was sold off years ago. I highly doubt he wanted me to live in it anyway. The only practical reason to give it to me would be so I could make some money off it. He probably assumed that by the time he died, I would be fully supporting myself as a professional dancer, and just like every professional dancer, could use the money. He sure got that right. I was flat broke when he died.
Just for fun, I looked up the address on one of those real estate websites. I don't know how they determine anything, but according to them, the market value of that house gradually increased over the years until it plummeted dramatically in 2018 and then skyrocketed in 2020. I don't know what happened in between those two years. Ordinarily, I would ignore website experts, but the rest of their information about the house is pretty accurate.
The obvious question now is sell or wait. If the price is only going up, it makes sense to see how high it can go. But it will go down eventually. In 2018, it went down hard. I paid nothing for the house, so everything after taxes and fees is profit, but if I sell it in five years for 60% of what I could get today, I will feel like I lost that theoretical money.
The more I think about selling it, the more pissed off I am about what my parents did. When I was 18, I lived in a tiny downtown Minneapolis apartment no bigger than my current bedroom. My grandfather generously wanted to give me his house. He put it in a trust rather than simply name me in his will, mostly to avoid taxes, but also so that no one – presumably my parents – could contest it. My grandfather's mistake was making someone as untrustworthy as my father the trustee. It is far too much house for an 18-year-old, but I could have sold it. According to the internet, I would have gotten far less for it then than I could now, but I needed the money far more then. My grandfather wanted to help me out in a way that would have completely changed my life. Had his wishes been kept, everything would have been different. Then again, would it have been better? Life has worked out pretty well for me so far. It would be too easy to speculate about all of the hypothetical possibilities. If I had sold the house at 18, I doubt any money would be left. If I sell it now, I have retirement savings. Maybe in their animosity, petty selfishness, and general assholery, my parents actually did me an unintentional favor.
But the greatest irony in all this is that my parents wanted to pretend I did not exist, yet through their deaths, I inherited more than they could have ever given me.
Music was important to my grandfather. Other than a few years in the army, he was a professional musician his entire adult life. He did not come from a family of musicians and often wondered if he had been switched at birth. When he got married and had a son, he wanted to pass on his musical knowledge. That son had no interest in learning to play anything, and took his life into a decidedly different direction from his father. When his son had a son, that son was encouraged to play sports. It looked like my grandfather was destined to be the sole musician in the family.
Then his son had a daughter. I was born to be a dancer. That was simply the way it was. As a dancer, music is exceptionally important to me, particularly rhythm. My grandfather taught me Every Good Boy Does Fine and Good Boys Do Fine Always. I taught myself scales on the piano, using the hunt and peck whole-whole-half-whole-whole-whole-half method. As soon as I was tall enough to reach everything, my grandfather had me on his drum set and taught me everything I know about playing drums. He bought me my first set, which was the only reason my parents tolerated it. I can see where having a child who plays drums might be a little annoying, but they could not forbid it without disrespecting their elder. Fortunately for everyone, my lessons were at my grandfather's house. Fortunately for my grandmother, my grandfather's music room was in the basement.
As a musician, my grandfather never made anything close to Paul McCartney money, though he was hardly in the garage band tax bracket. Money was a taboo subject in my family, but I think I was always aware that my grandparents had more than my parents. I simply saw that as the natural order of things. The older you were, the more money you had. My grandparents lived well. My parents had everything they needed. I had less than everybody.
Not that I grew up in poverty. We always had a roof over our heads, food in the kitchen, two cars in the garage, and plenty of clothes. Everything I ever wanted was an extravagant luxury, according to my parents. Except new clothes. New clothes were welcomed and encouraged. As long as they were respectable. “No daughter of mine is dressing like a cheap whore.” Evidently, an acceptable response is not, “How about an expensive whore?”
My parents were never rich, but they were several neighborhoods away from poor. My father was the pastor of his church, which pays more than it really should. He was also on the board of directors at their evangelical headquarters in Chicago, or whatever the sectarian version is called. Probably church council. Though he only went to Chicago a few times each year, he got paid to be on the board as if it was a real job. He also had an expense account for travel, both out of state and around town. Lutherans do not exactly take a vow of poverty.
For as long as I can remember, I was aware that many people had far less than we did. If I wanted a new toy, I was told about the starving children in Africa who had to play with sticks and rocks. If I wanted to eat something other than what was offered, I was told about the starving children in Africa who had to eat spiders and worms. For the longest time, I had a typically American misconception about Africa, given to me by people who had never set foot on the continent. Many years later, I had a boyfriend from South Africa who never even saw a jungle until he was an adult.
My grandparents grew up during the Great Depression. In the 1920s, my grandmother's family was rich, by any definition. At the beginning of the 1930s, they were homeless. She went from changing clothes for every meal when she was a child to sleeping in the family car when she was a teenager. She knew what it meant to lose everything, and made sure I knew how much I had. Most of my friends' parents probably had higher incomes than mine, but I knew as few rich people as I knew poor people. My childhood was deep in the heart of middle class.
I had to beg and plead with my parents for every little thing, except clothes. I think that might have been more about keeping up appearances than anything else. It was important to my parents, especially my mother, that we all looked like we could afford to live higher on the hog. How I dressed reflected on them, whereas their social circle never knew or cared if I could play Richie Cole's “Shaker Song” solo. I paid for anything music related that was not from my grandfather because my parents thought it was an extravagant hobby, despite the fact that my grandfather was a professional musician most of his life. When people complain about being forced to take piano lessons as a child, I wish my parents had done that. They paid for everything related to all of my brother's sports, when it was obvious that he would never come close to being a professional athlete, but there was never enough money for what I would turn into a career. It is true that my taste in musical instruments leans toward the better equipment. I had a Selmer series III alto sax in high school when there is absolutely nothing wrong with a cheaper Yamaha. But even after I started making money at my “hobby” and my brother was getting cut from one team or another, they could only afford to pay for his extracurricular activities. I left before college, but they were never going to pay for that either. At least for me. They paid every dime of my brother's education.
My brother was unequivocally their favorite child. He was the oldest, their golden boy who followed their rules – as far as they knew – and their only son. He was the only one who could carry on the family name, at least directly. There are probably a million people with our name, but our branch of the tree is not getting any bigger. My grandfather was the only son of his parents and he only had one son, who only had one son. Of course, daughters can carry on the family name in this century, but if I had a child tomorrow, she would have my Chinese name. If not for my grandfather, I would have rejected my English name a long time ago.
I try not to hold any of that against my brother. It is no more his fault that he was our parents' favorite than it is my fault that I was our grandfather's favorite. It was compatibility, personality, and mutual interests.
What I do hold against my brother is that he knew I was in my grandfather's will and never told me.
When my parents died last month, everything they owned was catalogued, assessed, and put under a microscope. No one cares about your thumbtack collection, but lawyers look at property, and the IRS always wants their cut. My parents' house and pretty much everything they did not give to their church went to my brother. Fair enough. I was dead to them, so there was no reason I would be in their will. Had they felt guilty and left me something, I would probably reject it on principle anyway.
An interesting point here is that, in the United States, when most people want to leave an adult child out of their will, they either specifically mention the person by name and indicate that they get nothing, or give the person a single dollar to show that they were not accidentally left out. The purpose is so the child cannot contest the will under the assumption that they were left out by mistake. In some states, but not Minnesota, you can put a clause in your will that someone only gets whatever they get if they do not contest the will.
Instead of doing any of that, my parents showed how big their balls were. Since I was dead to them, they never mentioned me in their will at all. Why would you put a dead person in your will? They either went against their lawyer's advice, or better yet, their lawyer never knew I existed. Legally, this leaves their will wide open for me to contest. I think they either knew I would want nothing to do with them and their stuff, or they genuinely thought of me as dead and I never crossed their minds when writing up the will. Either way, they gambled that I would not take it to court. And they were correct. What is theirs was never meant to be mine. Contesting the will would only hurt my brother, not them. He probably needs it more than I do.
After all the people with suits and clipboards sorted through the cobwebs, something no one was expecting was that my parents owned two houses. Except that they did not. One of those houses was my grandfather's, and he absolutely did not leave it to them. As it turns out, he left it to me. I was a minor when he died, so it went into a trust under my father's control. Naturally, no one told me. After I was dead to my parents, they must not have seen a reason to tell a dead child that her grandfather wanted to take care of her since her parents refused. A few years after I was out of the picture, they tried to sell the house. But it seems that real estate agents have some kind of rule against selling houses for people who do not actually own them. After that, who knows what their plan was. The house was in their will, so they knew it was still there. Leaving it to my brother was not a smart move, especially since he knew it was not theirs to give away. I have no idea what legal consequences he might face. I am told he has cooperated with everyone and never personally did anything illegal. By trying to screw me over, my parents kind of screwed him over, too. His childhood memories of that house are now tarnished by legal bullshit that he never asked to have dumped on him.
When the dust started to settle, I started to realize that I own a house in Minnesota. Obviously, I have to sell it. I like the idea of keeping it, but the property taxes will not go away just because I live elsewhere. And I would need someone to take care of the place. I could rent it out, but finding responsible tenants is difficult, especially from the other side of the world, and I would still be responsible for maintenance. I have great memories of that house. Some of the best moments of my childhood took place in that house. I would hate to supplant those memories with tales of clogged drains and broken pipes. Selling the last thing my grandfather ever did for me might be difficult, but I thought it was sold off years ago. I highly doubt he wanted me to live in it anyway. The only practical reason to give it to me would be so I could make some money off it. He probably assumed that by the time he died, I would be fully supporting myself as a professional dancer, and just like every professional dancer, could use the money. He sure got that right. I was flat broke when he died.
Just for fun, I looked up the address on one of those real estate websites. I don't know how they determine anything, but according to them, the market value of that house gradually increased over the years until it plummeted dramatically in 2018 and then skyrocketed in 2020. I don't know what happened in between those two years. Ordinarily, I would ignore website experts, but the rest of their information about the house is pretty accurate.
The obvious question now is sell or wait. If the price is only going up, it makes sense to see how high it can go. But it will go down eventually. In 2018, it went down hard. I paid nothing for the house, so everything after taxes and fees is profit, but if I sell it in five years for 60% of what I could get today, I will feel like I lost that theoretical money.
The more I think about selling it, the more pissed off I am about what my parents did. When I was 18, I lived in a tiny downtown Minneapolis apartment no bigger than my current bedroom. My grandfather generously wanted to give me his house. He put it in a trust rather than simply name me in his will, mostly to avoid taxes, but also so that no one – presumably my parents – could contest it. My grandfather's mistake was making someone as untrustworthy as my father the trustee. It is far too much house for an 18-year-old, but I could have sold it. According to the internet, I would have gotten far less for it then than I could now, but I needed the money far more then. My grandfather wanted to help me out in a way that would have completely changed my life. Had his wishes been kept, everything would have been different. Then again, would it have been better? Life has worked out pretty well for me so far. It would be too easy to speculate about all of the hypothetical possibilities. If I had sold the house at 18, I doubt any money would be left. If I sell it now, I have retirement savings. Maybe in their animosity, petty selfishness, and general assholery, my parents actually did me an unintentional favor.
But the greatest irony in all this is that my parents wanted to pretend I did not exist, yet through their deaths, I inherited more than they could have ever given me.
Saturday, April 16, 2022
Little Orphan Hailey
“Are you going to the funeral?” Joanne asked me over the phone.
“What funeral?” I replied.
This was how I learned that both of my parents died this week; from a casual phone call to my high school boyfriend's mother. We talk on the phone all the time. This time, we had something different to talk about. She assumed that someone else had already told me. Anyone else who could have, probably also assumed the same thing.
My parents were driving home from church on Tuesday when either they hit a semi tractor trailer or it hit them. Either way, their car lost. The strange part is that no big rig trucks should be driving on the small roads between their church and their house. But I don't know all the details. Maybe they went to a restaurant for dinner before going home or were on a larger street for any number of reasons.
What I know is that my father died on impact. My mother was taken to Fairview Southdale Hospital, which is usually ranked in the top 5% of Minnesota hospitals. I have no doubt that she got the best possible care. She died on Wednesday. I am not the least bit surprised that she hung on longer than he did. She was always more stubborn. He probably saw the truck, opened his arms wide and said, “Jesus, here I come.” She probably saw the truck and said, “Oh, hell no. Not today.”
I rarely talk about my parents. Mostly because they were horrible people. My mother always told me that if I did not have anything nice to say, I should not say anything at all, even though she had plenty of negativity to spread about others. I took her advice when it came to talking about her. They were horrible from my point of view. I'm sure most at their church thought they were the salt of the earth, and there was a good deal of grief and prayer when word came down about the truck joust. Especially since it happened right before Easter. Regardless of how I feel about my parents, I have some empathy for the congregation in that regard. I have no doubt they will all put on their Sunday best and carry on, but Easter is supposed to be about celebrating resurrection from the dead, not mourning real people who actually died. It's funny how subjective life is. While I think, if there was a Hell, my parents would now be roasting on a spit, other people who never had to live with them might think they should be canonized as saints.
On a strictly personal note, I'm not sure how I feel about the whole thing. I did not jump up and down with joy when I heard that both of my parents ate it. I did not cry either. I am not particularly bothered, and that bothers me a little. You are supposed to feel something when your parents take a dirt nap; sad, happy, angry, shocked, or anything, really. I feel indifferent. Hearing about their deaths was like hearing about an old celebrity whose work I never paid attention to who died long after they stopped doing whatever made them famous. They were 67 and 61, not as old as anyone really needs to be when they die, but far from spring chickens.
I have an older brother. Though he and I never really had a falling out, our relationship was collateral damage in the war with my parents. He was forced to take a side and, probably wisely, he chose them. They could offer a roof over his head, food in his stomach, clothes on his back, and a college education that lead to a fulfilling future. All I could be to him was a sister.
I have not spoken to my parents or my brother since I was 16. Nothing is going to change with my parents, especially now. I probably always knew that, but there was a time or two when I thought that maybe we could put our differences aside, if not in some dramatic TV moment, at least in a temporary truce. My last drop of hope evaporated after I was in my own collision with a big rig truck. I was in Beijing, so obviously they were never going to visit, but there was not so much as a phone call or even a single emoji text message. I know they heard about it. I know people who know them, so even though there was no bilateral communication, they were given occasional intelligence. When told that their daughter was fighting against the gaping maw of death, they remained silent. I was already dead to them. Their death forever closes the door to any possible reconciliation. But that door was locked, sealed shut, barricaded, and walled up a long time ago.
The biggest unknown in this equation is my brother. Now that our parents are no longer an issue, can we be siblings again? But he is not the one who told me about them. He has been out from under their thumb and living his own life for well over a decade. He could have easily called me in Beijing, or any number of times, without fear of financial repercussions. They could have, and likely would have, been disappointed in him for contacting me. They could not affect his livelihood.
I found out about my parents from my high school boyfriend's mother. That sounds strange, but I speak to her far more often than anyone to whom I am actually related. We will call the mother Joanne, because that may or may not be her name. Joanne feels more like a mother to me than anyone else. She was always more of a mother to me in high school than my actual biological mother.
There is also the issue of the funeral. I could go. Now might not be the best time to travel to the United States, and I could really do without all the TSA bullshit at American airports, but the people who stamp passports would have to let me in. Getting time off work is easy, especially when someone dies. It is illegal in this country for an employer to interfere with a relative's funeral, parents especially. But I have no desire to go to the funeral, and I would not be able to say anything. You have to say nice things at someone's funeral. I can't think of anything nice, aside from, “They never murdered us in our sleep, so that's something.” I doubt that would go over well. There is no real reason to go.
I said goodbye to them a long time ago. It was more like go fuck yourselves than goodbye, but the results were the same.
They would not want me there anyway.
“What funeral?” I replied.
This was how I learned that both of my parents died this week; from a casual phone call to my high school boyfriend's mother. We talk on the phone all the time. This time, we had something different to talk about. She assumed that someone else had already told me. Anyone else who could have, probably also assumed the same thing.
My parents were driving home from church on Tuesday when either they hit a semi tractor trailer or it hit them. Either way, their car lost. The strange part is that no big rig trucks should be driving on the small roads between their church and their house. But I don't know all the details. Maybe they went to a restaurant for dinner before going home or were on a larger street for any number of reasons.
What I know is that my father died on impact. My mother was taken to Fairview Southdale Hospital, which is usually ranked in the top 5% of Minnesota hospitals. I have no doubt that she got the best possible care. She died on Wednesday. I am not the least bit surprised that she hung on longer than he did. She was always more stubborn. He probably saw the truck, opened his arms wide and said, “Jesus, here I come.” She probably saw the truck and said, “Oh, hell no. Not today.”
I rarely talk about my parents. Mostly because they were horrible people. My mother always told me that if I did not have anything nice to say, I should not say anything at all, even though she had plenty of negativity to spread about others. I took her advice when it came to talking about her. They were horrible from my point of view. I'm sure most at their church thought they were the salt of the earth, and there was a good deal of grief and prayer when word came down about the truck joust. Especially since it happened right before Easter. Regardless of how I feel about my parents, I have some empathy for the congregation in that regard. I have no doubt they will all put on their Sunday best and carry on, but Easter is supposed to be about celebrating resurrection from the dead, not mourning real people who actually died. It's funny how subjective life is. While I think, if there was a Hell, my parents would now be roasting on a spit, other people who never had to live with them might think they should be canonized as saints.
On a strictly personal note, I'm not sure how I feel about the whole thing. I did not jump up and down with joy when I heard that both of my parents ate it. I did not cry either. I am not particularly bothered, and that bothers me a little. You are supposed to feel something when your parents take a dirt nap; sad, happy, angry, shocked, or anything, really. I feel indifferent. Hearing about their deaths was like hearing about an old celebrity whose work I never paid attention to who died long after they stopped doing whatever made them famous. They were 67 and 61, not as old as anyone really needs to be when they die, but far from spring chickens.
I have an older brother. Though he and I never really had a falling out, our relationship was collateral damage in the war with my parents. He was forced to take a side and, probably wisely, he chose them. They could offer a roof over his head, food in his stomach, clothes on his back, and a college education that lead to a fulfilling future. All I could be to him was a sister.
I have not spoken to my parents or my brother since I was 16. Nothing is going to change with my parents, especially now. I probably always knew that, but there was a time or two when I thought that maybe we could put our differences aside, if not in some dramatic TV moment, at least in a temporary truce. My last drop of hope evaporated after I was in my own collision with a big rig truck. I was in Beijing, so obviously they were never going to visit, but there was not so much as a phone call or even a single emoji text message. I know they heard about it. I know people who know them, so even though there was no bilateral communication, they were given occasional intelligence. When told that their daughter was fighting against the gaping maw of death, they remained silent. I was already dead to them. Their death forever closes the door to any possible reconciliation. But that door was locked, sealed shut, barricaded, and walled up a long time ago.
The biggest unknown in this equation is my brother. Now that our parents are no longer an issue, can we be siblings again? But he is not the one who told me about them. He has been out from under their thumb and living his own life for well over a decade. He could have easily called me in Beijing, or any number of times, without fear of financial repercussions. They could have, and likely would have, been disappointed in him for contacting me. They could not affect his livelihood.
I found out about my parents from my high school boyfriend's mother. That sounds strange, but I speak to her far more often than anyone to whom I am actually related. We will call the mother Joanne, because that may or may not be her name. Joanne feels more like a mother to me than anyone else. She was always more of a mother to me in high school than my actual biological mother.
There is also the issue of the funeral. I could go. Now might not be the best time to travel to the United States, and I could really do without all the TSA bullshit at American airports, but the people who stamp passports would have to let me in. Getting time off work is easy, especially when someone dies. It is illegal in this country for an employer to interfere with a relative's funeral, parents especially. But I have no desire to go to the funeral, and I would not be able to say anything. You have to say nice things at someone's funeral. I can't think of anything nice, aside from, “They never murdered us in our sleep, so that's something.” I doubt that would go over well. There is no real reason to go.
I said goodbye to them a long time ago. It was more like go fuck yourselves than goodbye, but the results were the same.
They would not want me there anyway.
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
Hailey's Novel Diary – 5/24/17
I just wrote an incredibly graphic rape scene. It's probably unnecessarily graphic. That just opens a whole can of worms.
The first rape scene I ever remember reading was in The World According to Garp. It's disturbing and upsetting, as it should be, and more graphic than I thought necessary at the time. Now, I'm not sure. John Irving was correct to include it in that particular story.
But it is pretty obvious while reading the scene that John Irving is not a woman. Not because of the psychological effects. A million different people could have a million different reactions. It is simply described by someone who is definitely not a woman. Then again, that scene is written by Garp, so maybe it's not John Irving's fault. Maybe he was even smarter than I thought for doing it the way he did. Probably. He knew what he was doing. Too bad he never had a blog. I would love to read if he originally wrote it as a woman would and then went back to make it more obviously male, or if he always knew it was going to be written by a man. Or if he simply wrote it as a man because he is a man.
But in my story, everything is written by a woman from the point of view of a female character. So I can't blame Garp. The entire issue is a land mine that I don't think I want to walk through at this particular time. I'm tempted to cut it out, but I have to make sure I'm cutting it for the right reasons.
The first rape scene I ever remember reading was in The World According to Garp. It's disturbing and upsetting, as it should be, and more graphic than I thought necessary at the time. Now, I'm not sure. John Irving was correct to include it in that particular story.
But it is pretty obvious while reading the scene that John Irving is not a woman. Not because of the psychological effects. A million different people could have a million different reactions. It is simply described by someone who is definitely not a woman. Then again, that scene is written by Garp, so maybe it's not John Irving's fault. Maybe he was even smarter than I thought for doing it the way he did. Probably. He knew what he was doing. Too bad he never had a blog. I would love to read if he originally wrote it as a woman would and then went back to make it more obviously male, or if he always knew it was going to be written by a man. Or if he simply wrote it as a man because he is a man.
But in my story, everything is written by a woman from the point of view of a female character. So I can't blame Garp. The entire issue is a land mine that I don't think I want to walk through at this particular time. I'm tempted to cut it out, but I have to make sure I'm cutting it for the right reasons.
Sunday, July 10, 2016
Another Day, Another Shooting
Police officers shot a young black man in St Paul who had a broken tail light. What I find unbelievable is not so much that the police shot a young black man. That seems to be alarmingly common. What I can't believe is that it happened in Minnesota. That's something that happens in the south, California and Wisconsin. If it can happen in Minnesota, it can happen anywhere. Maybe not in Vermont. If you are one of the five young black men there, you probably already know how to avoid the police.
Now people are shooting the police in Dallas. I'm not on Facebook, so I don't have all the answers to society's problems, but I doubt making the police more paranoid is going to help anybody.
Whenever I go to Israel, people always warn me that Israel is a dangerous place, even though it is not. No one has ever told me to be careful when going to the United States. Then again, I am not a young black man.
Now people are shooting the police in Dallas. I'm not on Facebook, so I don't have all the answers to society's problems, but I doubt making the police more paranoid is going to help anybody.
Whenever I go to Israel, people always warn me that Israel is a dangerous place, even though it is not. No one has ever told me to be careful when going to the United States. Then again, I am not a young black man.
Monday, April 11, 2016
Attack of the 12mm Vampires
Mosquito season is roughly between March and December around here. We don't have zika, or anything worth worrying about, but those little creatures are still annoying.
I have been in this apartment for two years and never had any problems with mosquitoes. Until now. I don't even remember seeing any in the apartment last year. This year, they have invaded. I don't know what changed. The weather is the same as always. The windows and doors are well insulated. This is a newer building, so it does not have those old style sliding windows with huge gaps that any insect could easily get through. I would be surprised if they are coming through the windows.
What mosquitoes like more than anything else are puddles of standing water and people, or animals, with warm blood. The little puddles that form out on the balcony when it rains dry up pretty quickly in the sun. I don't know of any place around here for them to lay their eggs. And, supposedly, white people have slightly lower body temperatures than Chinese people. That is probably not the least bit true, but I have heard a lot of Chinese people say it is.
Oddly enough, Japanese people are supposed to have lower body temperatures than white people. That is probably also untrue, but someone should do some research. Let loose some mosquitoes in a room full of Chinese, Japanese and Europeans and see what happens.
So we have an apartment full of white people with colder blood than our neighbors and everything is dry outdoors. There is no real reason for mosquitoes to come in here, especially if they have been ignoring us the last two years. But they are here. And they are driving me crazy.
I have been in this apartment for two years and never had any problems with mosquitoes. Until now. I don't even remember seeing any in the apartment last year. This year, they have invaded. I don't know what changed. The weather is the same as always. The windows and doors are well insulated. This is a newer building, so it does not have those old style sliding windows with huge gaps that any insect could easily get through. I would be surprised if they are coming through the windows.
What mosquitoes like more than anything else are puddles of standing water and people, or animals, with warm blood. The little puddles that form out on the balcony when it rains dry up pretty quickly in the sun. I don't know of any place around here for them to lay their eggs. And, supposedly, white people have slightly lower body temperatures than Chinese people. That is probably not the least bit true, but I have heard a lot of Chinese people say it is.
Oddly enough, Japanese people are supposed to have lower body temperatures than white people. That is probably also untrue, but someone should do some research. Let loose some mosquitoes in a room full of Chinese, Japanese and Europeans and see what happens.
So we have an apartment full of white people with colder blood than our neighbors and everything is dry outdoors. There is no real reason for mosquitoes to come in here, especially if they have been ignoring us the last two years. But they are here. And they are driving me crazy.
Sunday, November 15, 2015
#J’en ai ma claque
Everyone stands with Paris. That's great, but maybe it is time to do something about the murderers who stand against us all. Lowering flags, lighting buildings, Twitter octothorpes and blog posts are all fine and dandy, but they do nothing to stop any of the terrorists who have declared war on humanity.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
Typhoon Haiyan
Typhoon Haiyan tore through the Philippines on Friday. It's supposed to be one of the largest typhoons ever. They said Usagi was going to be the largest typhoon of the year. Haiyan is a little bigger and, unlike Usagi, is actually causing damage.
Usagi was supposed to slam into Hong Kong. It did not. It veered north and hit a less populated area of China. Haiyan went straight into the middle of the Philippines. It has killed about 200 people so far and left about a million homeless. They are saying as many as 10,000 are dead, but that is not even close to confirmed. One of the areas it hit had an earthquake two weeks earlier.
People talk about typhoons in Hong Kong, but they rarely hit us directly. It is the Philippines that gets hit several times every year. They protect us from whatever the Pacific Ocean throws at us, thankfully. This time, they protected us from a massive super typhoon.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Boston Bombing
What's wrong with people? Why would anyone want to blow up the Boston Marathon? I can understand terrorists blowing each other up in areas controlled by other terrorists. It's still stupid, but maybe they can gain control of some patch of dirt if they kill enough of their enemies. It doesn't make any sense to attack places like Boston. If you're a terrorist, you're never going to control Boston. There's no way in hell you're ever going to take over the United States. Our military would blow up the entire world before they let that happen. Maybe you can take over parts of Pakistan or Afghanistan, or some former Soviet republic, or chunks of Africa, if you're lucky. You're never going to make a dent in America.
Attacking the World Trade Center made sense. It was a cowardly act by a bunch of assholes, but attacking the financial center of the world will get you loads of attention. How many Americans knew anything about al Qaeda before 9/11? They're international superstars now. Attacking a marathon isn't going to bring a world power to its knees, or even a city. The point of terrorism, other than to kill, is to terrorize people. It's in the name. You're never going to make people in a city like Boston bow down in fear. Anyone who thinks that has never been to Boston.
Attacking a marathon is not even a great way to kill a lot of people. Taking down giant skyscrapers turns them into death traps from which escape is difficult to impossible. Far more people died when the towers collapsed than in the initial impact. Marathons are out in the open. People can escape in every direction.
If your fundamental goal is to bring the American imperialist dogs to their knees, you need to get a lot smarter. Bombing the Boston Marathon was stupid.
Attacking the World Trade Center made sense. It was a cowardly act by a bunch of assholes, but attacking the financial center of the world will get you loads of attention. How many Americans knew anything about al Qaeda before 9/11? They're international superstars now. Attacking a marathon isn't going to bring a world power to its knees, or even a city. The point of terrorism, other than to kill, is to terrorize people. It's in the name. You're never going to make people in a city like Boston bow down in fear. Anyone who thinks that has never been to Boston.
Attacking a marathon is not even a great way to kill a lot of people. Taking down giant skyscrapers turns them into death traps from which escape is difficult to impossible. Far more people died when the towers collapsed than in the initial impact. Marathons are out in the open. People can escape in every direction.
If your fundamental goal is to bring the American imperialist dogs to their knees, you need to get a lot smarter. Bombing the Boston Marathon was stupid.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Bad Dream
I had a terrible dream last night. It wasn’t a dream. It was a nightmare.
Usually I dream about my career or Ryan. Lately, I’ll dream about the movie I did. I usually have a much bigger and better part in my dreams. Sometimes I dream about being in completely different movies. The funny thing is, I’m not always the star. Outside of dreamland, working in the theater, I like playing supporting parts. The best playwrights save their best characters for supporting roles. I think it has a lot to do with prima donnas who always have to be the star. I’ve been having lots of dreams about making movies lately.
I dream about Ryan a lot because we never see each other. We talk at least once a day, sometimes more, but we haven’t seen each other in person in 11 weeks.
Those are good dreams. Usually only good things happen and I’m always happy waking up from those dreams.
This one was a nightmare.
Lily & I are on some beach I don’t recognize. It probably doesn’t exist. We are just hanging out and talking about whatever comes up, when a group of five middle-aged Chinese men approach us. It is ominous right from the start. There might be dissonant music playing. In the real world, Chinese men are not at all threatening, and they generally travel in packs, so it’s not at all unusual to see a group coming toward you. In my dream, I know right away this is bad. They are walking right to us with purpose, not just walking by.
I should probably point out that even though these men were Chinese, they did not look Chinese at all. They were white and looked like they or their ancestors were from northern Europe, but more Denmark than Sweden. I don’t know if that makes my subconscious less racist or more.
The Chinese leader of the group snaps his fingers and one of the other men takes out a knife and holds it up to Lily’s throat. Chinese Leader tells us to stay calm. If anyone screams, Lily will die. Naturally, we keep quiet. There is no one else on the beach to help us anyway. Chinese Leader explains what their plan is and what he expects us to do.
He says they are all going to take turns with me. None of them is going to come inside me. They are saving that for later, but he does not say what. If we cooperate, we will get out of there in one piece. If we cause problems, they will start cutting us up. While he is explaining their plan, one of the men keeps his knife at Lily’s throat and another takes off my bikini. I want to stop him. Every instinct I have tells me to push him away, but I know they will kill Lily. It takes all of my self-control to stand still. Once I am naked, a different man takes off Lily’s bikini. I stand still to keep from going primal. She has to stay still to keep the knife from cutting her throat.
Chinese Leader motions to one of the other men, who then grabs my hair and pulls me down to the sand. Someone hands Chinese Leader a ridiculously oversized tube of lubricant and he starts rubbing it all over me, everywhere. He takes his time spreading lube on my legs and stomach. He lubes up my breasts, which is no big surprise, but also rubs lubricant all over my arms. I can not understand the point of that. He gets hard while lubing up my belly button. I almost laugh because it is so strange. I want to laugh because his penis is so small, but I know that will only be bad for Lily.
Chinese Leader hovers over me, already tired from all that lubricating. He pushes himself inside me and I almost feel a sense of relief. Up to that point, it is mostly fear of the unknown, like being in a hostage situation and never knowing when or how it is all going to end. At least now I know that once it starts, it cannot last very long.
Chinese Leader tells his friends that I am very tight and announces that I must be a virgin. They all seem pretty happy.
“We finally found one,” Chinese #2 says.
Lily and I look at each other, knowing they have done this before.
Chinese Leader cannot last any longer, so he gets up and walks away. Chinese #2 gets on top of me and Chinese Leader forces his cock into Lily’s mouth. He tells her to taste me and Chinese #3 says that she probably already has. They all laugh.
“She is most definitely a virgin,” Chinese #2 says while inside me.
“Not anymore,” Chinese #3 says, and they all laugh about that as well.
Chinese #2 cannot last very long and Chinese #3 gets on top of me. While he is there, Chinese #4 forces his stubby shaft into Lily’s mouth. They soon switch places, alternating between Lily and me. When Chinese #3 stands up to watch, Chinese #4 also stands back and everyone watches Chinese #5 push himself on me.
When everyone has finally had a turn, they all stand around me in a circle.
“Banzai,” Chinese Leader shouts, leading me to believe they might be Japanese rather than Chinese.
This is their signal and everyone comes on my head and face in unison. After everyone is spent, Chinese Leader turns to Lily and I realize that no one has held a knife to her in some time.
“Thanks again,” Chinese Leader says to Lily and smiles.
When Lily smiles back, my heart sinks deep into my chest and I lose all the air in my lungs.
“That is correct,” Chinese Leader says. “She was in on it the whole time.”
Her betrayal is far more painful than anything else that happened. Being attacked by a gang of Chinese Danes is horrendous, but knowing that Lily set it all up is a million times worse. I want to cry, but my eyes are burning dry. I want to scream, but nothing can come out. Finally, thankfully, I wake up.
I felt sick. I can usually shake off bad dreams because they’re just dreams. I was safe and sound in my bed. I was in a tiny room in my tiny apartment, nowhere near the beach. No one else was around and nothing bad happened to me. In another frame of mind, it could have been interpreted as a happy orgy dream with a group of studs satisfying my every whim, but even the idea that Lily would do something like that made me feel like throwing up.
I know she didn’t really do anything. It was just a dream, but it stayed in my mind for a long time. I’m still thinking about it.
Usually I dream about my career or Ryan. Lately, I’ll dream about the movie I did. I usually have a much bigger and better part in my dreams. Sometimes I dream about being in completely different movies. The funny thing is, I’m not always the star. Outside of dreamland, working in the theater, I like playing supporting parts. The best playwrights save their best characters for supporting roles. I think it has a lot to do with prima donnas who always have to be the star. I’ve been having lots of dreams about making movies lately.
I dream about Ryan a lot because we never see each other. We talk at least once a day, sometimes more, but we haven’t seen each other in person in 11 weeks.
Those are good dreams. Usually only good things happen and I’m always happy waking up from those dreams.
This one was a nightmare.
Lily & I are on some beach I don’t recognize. It probably doesn’t exist. We are just hanging out and talking about whatever comes up, when a group of five middle-aged Chinese men approach us. It is ominous right from the start. There might be dissonant music playing. In the real world, Chinese men are not at all threatening, and they generally travel in packs, so it’s not at all unusual to see a group coming toward you. In my dream, I know right away this is bad. They are walking right to us with purpose, not just walking by.
I should probably point out that even though these men were Chinese, they did not look Chinese at all. They were white and looked like they or their ancestors were from northern Europe, but more Denmark than Sweden. I don’t know if that makes my subconscious less racist or more.
The Chinese leader of the group snaps his fingers and one of the other men takes out a knife and holds it up to Lily’s throat. Chinese Leader tells us to stay calm. If anyone screams, Lily will die. Naturally, we keep quiet. There is no one else on the beach to help us anyway. Chinese Leader explains what their plan is and what he expects us to do.
He says they are all going to take turns with me. None of them is going to come inside me. They are saving that for later, but he does not say what. If we cooperate, we will get out of there in one piece. If we cause problems, they will start cutting us up. While he is explaining their plan, one of the men keeps his knife at Lily’s throat and another takes off my bikini. I want to stop him. Every instinct I have tells me to push him away, but I know they will kill Lily. It takes all of my self-control to stand still. Once I am naked, a different man takes off Lily’s bikini. I stand still to keep from going primal. She has to stay still to keep the knife from cutting her throat.
Chinese Leader motions to one of the other men, who then grabs my hair and pulls me down to the sand. Someone hands Chinese Leader a ridiculously oversized tube of lubricant and he starts rubbing it all over me, everywhere. He takes his time spreading lube on my legs and stomach. He lubes up my breasts, which is no big surprise, but also rubs lubricant all over my arms. I can not understand the point of that. He gets hard while lubing up my belly button. I almost laugh because it is so strange. I want to laugh because his penis is so small, but I know that will only be bad for Lily.
Chinese Leader hovers over me, already tired from all that lubricating. He pushes himself inside me and I almost feel a sense of relief. Up to that point, it is mostly fear of the unknown, like being in a hostage situation and never knowing when or how it is all going to end. At least now I know that once it starts, it cannot last very long.
Chinese Leader tells his friends that I am very tight and announces that I must be a virgin. They all seem pretty happy.
“We finally found one,” Chinese #2 says.
Lily and I look at each other, knowing they have done this before.
Chinese Leader cannot last any longer, so he gets up and walks away. Chinese #2 gets on top of me and Chinese Leader forces his cock into Lily’s mouth. He tells her to taste me and Chinese #3 says that she probably already has. They all laugh.
“She is most definitely a virgin,” Chinese #2 says while inside me.
“Not anymore,” Chinese #3 says, and they all laugh about that as well.
Chinese #2 cannot last very long and Chinese #3 gets on top of me. While he is there, Chinese #4 forces his stubby shaft into Lily’s mouth. They soon switch places, alternating between Lily and me. When Chinese #3 stands up to watch, Chinese #4 also stands back and everyone watches Chinese #5 push himself on me.
When everyone has finally had a turn, they all stand around me in a circle.
“Banzai,” Chinese Leader shouts, leading me to believe they might be Japanese rather than Chinese.
This is their signal and everyone comes on my head and face in unison. After everyone is spent, Chinese Leader turns to Lily and I realize that no one has held a knife to her in some time.
“Thanks again,” Chinese Leader says to Lily and smiles.
When Lily smiles back, my heart sinks deep into my chest and I lose all the air in my lungs.
“That is correct,” Chinese Leader says. “She was in on it the whole time.”
Her betrayal is far more painful than anything else that happened. Being attacked by a gang of Chinese Danes is horrendous, but knowing that Lily set it all up is a million times worse. I want to cry, but my eyes are burning dry. I want to scream, but nothing can come out. Finally, thankfully, I wake up.
I felt sick. I can usually shake off bad dreams because they’re just dreams. I was safe and sound in my bed. I was in a tiny room in my tiny apartment, nowhere near the beach. No one else was around and nothing bad happened to me. In another frame of mind, it could have been interpreted as a happy orgy dream with a group of studs satisfying my every whim, but even the idea that Lily would do something like that made me feel like throwing up.
I know she didn’t really do anything. It was just a dream, but it stayed in my mind for a long time. I’m still thinking about it.
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Sunday, December 16, 2012
Connecticut Shooting
I keep hearing about how bad the United States is, how Americans are so arrogant, we always invade every country in the world and we’re always telling everybody else what to do. I always defend the United States because it’s my home. We’ve got our share of problems, but we’re also the country everyone goes to for help. If there’s a disaster anywhere in the world, American aid is sent. If some country attacks some other country, American troops are sent. Need food, medicine, protection? The United States probably helped your country at some point in time. Some people might hate the United States, but even more look up to us as the most powerful country in the world. That power didn’t come by default. We had to work at it. There are countries with more oil, more water, more land, more people. We made it to the top through a combination of determination, opportunity, watching Europe destroy itself, and a lot of hard work. It’s no coincidence that more people immigrate to the United States than any other country.
Then some idiot goes into a school and shoots a bunch of children. This doesn’t happen in other countries, at least not at such a large scale and so often. I really don’t know what the problem is. Some people will blame guns, but other countries have plenty of guns and they don’t shoot each other. I read that 90% of people in Switzerland have access to guns. I’ve never heard of a school shooting in Switzerland.
Some people even say we need more guns. I don’t see how that would help anything. If everybody had a gun, it wouldn’t be like a movie where the good guys shoot the bad guys. It would be like real life where too many people shoot too many other people. If everybody had a gun and only half of the people miss, it would still be a bloodbath.
Some people try to say it’s all the immigration. We’re so violent because we have such a melting pot of people. That’s just stupid. A lot of countries have people from all over the world. We’re hardly the only one. Europe is a melting pot, but I never hear about school shootings there. Canada and Australia have immigrants running around all over the place. When is there ever a school shooting in Canada or Australia?
Some people point to our violent past as a way to explain our violent present. They say the old west was a big free for all and some of that attitude is still around. But the old west wasn’t really the anarchy of the movies, and most of the world has a violent past. Europe has been at war since the beginning of time up until just a few decades ago. The history of Asia is one long list of wars and crimes against humanity. And there are far more people living in cramped conditions. When was the last time there was a school shooting anywhere in Asia?
I really don’t know why this keeps happening. I know most Americans would never dream of shooting children. It’s the very small minority who are giving us all a bad name. I also know it’s a lot more important to help the children who have to deal with this than to blame whatever politician you don’t like. By turning these school shootings into a political issue, we are guaranteeing that it will not be solved any time soon. Americans can be counted on to get the job done, as long as it’s not political. Once you bring politics into it, any movement in any direction comes to a screeching halt. If the moon landing had turned into a political issue with Democrats for and Republicans against, Russia would have landed on the moon. If Republicans had opposed airplanes for religious reasons or Democrats opposed them for safety reasons, the Wright Brothers would have stuck with bicycles. If you want adults to stop shooting children, you have to make it a human issue, not a political one.
Then some idiot goes into a school and shoots a bunch of children. This doesn’t happen in other countries, at least not at such a large scale and so often. I really don’t know what the problem is. Some people will blame guns, but other countries have plenty of guns and they don’t shoot each other. I read that 90% of people in Switzerland have access to guns. I’ve never heard of a school shooting in Switzerland.
Some people even say we need more guns. I don’t see how that would help anything. If everybody had a gun, it wouldn’t be like a movie where the good guys shoot the bad guys. It would be like real life where too many people shoot too many other people. If everybody had a gun and only half of the people miss, it would still be a bloodbath.
Some people try to say it’s all the immigration. We’re so violent because we have such a melting pot of people. That’s just stupid. A lot of countries have people from all over the world. We’re hardly the only one. Europe is a melting pot, but I never hear about school shootings there. Canada and Australia have immigrants running around all over the place. When is there ever a school shooting in Canada or Australia?
Some people point to our violent past as a way to explain our violent present. They say the old west was a big free for all and some of that attitude is still around. But the old west wasn’t really the anarchy of the movies, and most of the world has a violent past. Europe has been at war since the beginning of time up until just a few decades ago. The history of Asia is one long list of wars and crimes against humanity. And there are far more people living in cramped conditions. When was the last time there was a school shooting anywhere in Asia?
I really don’t know why this keeps happening. I know most Americans would never dream of shooting children. It’s the very small minority who are giving us all a bad name. I also know it’s a lot more important to help the children who have to deal with this than to blame whatever politician you don’t like. By turning these school shootings into a political issue, we are guaranteeing that it will not be solved any time soon. Americans can be counted on to get the job done, as long as it’s not political. Once you bring politics into it, any movement in any direction comes to a screeching halt. If the moon landing had turned into a political issue with Democrats for and Republicans against, Russia would have landed on the moon. If Republicans had opposed airplanes for religious reasons or Democrats opposed them for safety reasons, the Wright Brothers would have stuck with bicycles. If you want adults to stop shooting children, you have to make it a human issue, not a political one.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
Hong Kong Typhoon
Typhoon season is here. The biggest typhoon in a dozen years hit Hong Kong late Monday night/early Tuesday morning. Typhoon Vincente was a category 4 typhoon, the second highest category. But Hong Kong gave it their highest storm warning, category 10. Winds over 88 mph canceled flights from the airport, closed the ferries and closed government offices. The airport reopened by the end of the day. The last I heard, about 130 people were injured. I haven’t heard about anyone dying so far.
Vincente was slamming into Mainland China by Tuesday afternoon, causing massive flooding and doing far more damage than in Hong Kong. There was flooding in the New Territories, but the rest of Hong Kong made out ok.
I haven’t noticed any damage to any permanent buildings, but lots of scaffolding and those temporary sheet metal walls they put up for construction were torn down or just blown away. Quite a few trees were knocked down. I never realized how many trees there are in Hong Kong, until they started tumbling down.
They turned some MTR stations into shelters just before the typhoon hit land. I’m not sure why the MTR can’t operate during typhoons. It’s underground. Maybe there is an issue with flooding, but then turning them into shelters would be a disastrous idea.
I’ve seen more than a few storms in Hong Kong. It always seems to be raining around here. But this was demonstrably worse. You could tell it was going to be different from the usual summer storm long before the wind pounded the buildings or the rain stabbed the pavement. Typhoons give off a charge in their air, not quite electric and not like a rain storm. You just know it is coming, similar to a tornado, but different.
I was at home when it hit. That’s probably the best place to be. I live in a tall building by Minneapolis standards, but average in Hong Kong. Tall buildings might seem like a bad place to be during a typhoon, but everything here is built to withstand higher wind speeds than anything ever recorded. A shelter underground might seem safer, but my building felt safer. With mostly views of the other buildings around us, there’s no great place to watch storms out the window, but it felt perfectly safe. I’m glad I didn’t have to spend the night in an MTR station.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Japan Earthquake Pictures
Japan seems like a pretty amazing country. I’ve always heard it’s a great place to visit, but it looks like the people are strong and resilient, too.
Our first Hong Kong vacation is next month and everybody says it’s really cheap and easy to fly to other countries from here. Japan was always on our short list, but now we’ll have to save it for later. My heart goes out to the people and I hope I can visit them soon.
I haven’t been this amazed by nature since Hurricane Katrina.
Our first Hong Kong vacation is next month and everybody says it’s really cheap and easy to fly to other countries from here. Japan was always on our short list, but now we’ll have to save it for later. My heart goes out to the people and I hope I can visit them soon.
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| from AP |
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| from BBC |
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| from BBC |
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| from BBC |
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| from National Geographic |
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| from National Geographic |
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| from Reuters |
I haven’t been this amazed by nature since Hurricane Katrina.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Japan Earthquake
There was a huge earthquake in Japan today. I haven’t been able to find out much about it. The Chinese news has plenty of pictures, but it’s all in Chinese, so I don’t know what they’re saying. The American news is just talking about Hawaii and barely mentioning Japan. I guess there is the slight risk of a tsunami hitting Hawaii. That could be bad, but the real news is in Japan. I don’t know why they don’t focus on that.
We didn’t feel the earthquake here. It would have to be the biggest earthquake in the world for us to feel it. I didn’t even know about it until several hours after it happened and people were talking about it.
We didn’t feel the earthquake here. It would have to be the biggest earthquake in the world for us to feel it. I didn’t even know about it until several hours after it happened and people were talking about it.
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