Down the Tubes

I guess you wonder where I been. I searched to find a love within. I came back to let you know. Got a thing for you, and I can't let go.

Not really, but I'm listening to Bobby Caldwell circa 1979 and I'm feeling kind of sentimental. I found the video on You Tube by accident. One of those random links that somehow popped up as they do only on You Tube. You start out looking for the Smiths. That turns into guinea pigs dancing to Jungle Boogie from Pulp Fiction, which leads to Filipino prison inmates doing the Thriller dance complete with a man in a halter top playing Michael Jackson's love interest. That led me directly to the Bollywood version of Thriller, which was actually really scary. I don't think they were faking being dead.

I've learned a lot since diving into You Tube four years after everybody else. Apparently, I am not the only person who thinks her cat is way more fascinating than she actually is. My cat really is spectacular, despite her crossed eye. And those who've seen the photos on my cell phone will back me up. Making bird noises at a moth, however, is not what I would consider post-worthy. Neither are the clips of meows with subtitles that translate what the cat is supposedly saying. To the person who showed video "proof" that his cat meowed a cover of Gimme More while he shook the bag of Meow Mix: What your cat actually said was "Dude, put down the pipe." Nevertheless, I watched about a mini-series worth of cats mewing in tongues. Loser? I prefer the term media anthropologist.

I never did watch that Chris Crocker guy cry about Britney Spears' disastrous performance at the VMA's. I'm so sure. I was busy watching the Bee Gees perform Jive Talkin' in what looked like white full-body Speedos with plunging necklines. Tragedy indeed. I'm pretty sure no one was wearing underwear. That led to the obligatory walk down Saturday Night Fever memory lane. What exactly is someone if she is More Than a Woman? A hermaphrodite? Sensory flashbacks of my stepfather dancing to Donna Summer forced me to move on or I would have been in the disco round all night.

When I see children at Target I usually despise them. If they aren't already screaming, they or some close to them will surely start within seconds. And when one starts they all start -- like all the neighborhood dogs barking simultaneously when they hear a siren. It's just what Target does to children. Like the moon and werewolves. I want no part of it. On You Tube, however, people post their kids being hilarious, precocious and just straight up crazy. Why do we think it so funny when kids swear or slap their fathers across the camera? I admit I was laughing. But I also saw stuff I don't think Children and Youth Services should know about. Then again, teenybopper slut pageants are legal, so what do I know? Besides, the secret to success for girls these days seems to include telling the press you're a virgin while simulating sex onstage.

I admit I haven't actually looked for anything of real educational or spiritual value, so I don't know if it exists. Of course, I do place value on things like being able to watch Tim Curry belt out Sweet Transvestite while I'm at the library studying. And Jesus singing I Will Survive inspired me -- as an artist. When I was in ninth grade my mother decided that our illegal MTV had ruined me. Madonna. My mother was clear. I wasn't supposed to be like a virgin. I was supposed to be a virgin. I was forced to wear pantyhose and attend a Christian youth group where nobody would talk to me. I sat there silently, trying to memorize bible quotes, playing with my black rubber bracelets. I knew that one day I would grow up and say whatever I wanted to say even if it was stupid. Okay, not true. I always thought my running commentary was brilliant. Like a cat who meows Britney Spears on the Internet. And I guess that's what we're all doing these days. We're having our say and convinced that we are fabulous.

Day of the Dead Dates

Not to be a culture co-opting gringa or anything, but the Day of the Dead rocks. I did not go to a cemetery and pour a can of Schlitz on my grandpa's grave. Nor did I make an altar of tuna fish in honor of Mama Kitty. In fact, I failed to follow the dead-honoring tradition at all. Instead, I chose to acknowledge those who should be dead. If you read my comic book Dating Sucks My Will to Live then you know who I am talking about. Cheapskates, haters and spiritual terrorists a.k.a. my would be suitors. And truly, I don't want to give them any more attention than I already have. As it is I probably owe at least one of them a settlement because he recognized himself as the star of my other comic classic The Break-Up Diary. Still, I recently found myself haunted by memories of men who put the dis in dysfunctional. And I realized I had to do something about it.

Bad memories are bad juju, and I've got more than a shoeboxful. Maybe I don't need to rent a storage unit to hold mine, but I probably need an extra bookshelf and some Tupperware. The guy who divided our cafe check in half after he'd not only ordered for me, but eaten half my food reminded me to "leave a little something for the waiter." Another guy complimented my choice in wine by saying, "Not bad for the two or three dollars you probably paid for it." Rounding out the list is the man who stood me up, the man who gave me a used negligee and the man who said he could never get serious with a cat owner because he doesn't believe in "that lifestyle." Add to that the speed freak who thought he was Jesus, the Jesuit who thought I was the devil and the Svengali who tried to make me start a cult with him. It's enough to traumatize even the most optimistic of daters.

So imagine my dismay when an actual nice guy makes himself known to me in a charming, can-I-carry-your-books-for-you kind of way. He takes me out for dinner. And then again and again. He tells me right up front what I can expect from him -- endless foot massages, access to his film collection and a reason to shave my legs on a regular basis. And while he is not pushing for a commitment, I find myself already committed -- to the ghosts of dating past. I find myself cringing in anticipation of the insult or the disappointment. At any moment he will ask the question: This isn't a date, right? Except he doesn't. His ex-girlfriend doesn't make the operator do an emergency interrupt during our phone calls. He doesn't tell me my breath "smells like a rotting animal." He doesn't go home early to have cybersex with an underage online hooker.

Dating without drama? I am disoriented and afraid. Like a lab rat, monkey or bunny that never leaves the jar or the maze even after the lid is taken off the lipstick or whatever. I am conditioned for the bitchslap. I need to be exorcised of the demon dates of my past. I need those memories to die their good deaths and be gone. I am even willing to sacrifice excellent satire at their expense in the name of freeing myself. I write to the misogynist monk and the nutrition Nazi. I write to the tweaker, the cheater and the cat hater. The movie star, the rock star, and the pirate. I knew I was making progress when my chest no longer burned and it seemed reasonable that I might no longer desire to stab anyone in the heart with my pen. I burned these letters to ash and then threw them into the garden to give them a chance to reincarnate as something good for me -- like chard.

All of a sudden I remembered how uniquely and beautifully human each of us is. I felt each of my offenders for a moment and remembered details of their lives that made them feel small and mean and ready to lash out at other people -- women in particular. I believe that none of them actually meant to hurt me as much as they did. And I never meant to hurt them. Except when they deserved it, of course. And except when I was being as human as they were. I know for sure that one of my former boyfriends sought therapy due to the pleasure of knowing my love. (In fairness to myself, he's a psychotic loser, but still...)

I don't know how many people I killed today. It was a bad memory massacre. I hope that I have freed myself. In order to get my freak on I had to get the freaks out. And like all good ghosts, they may return to haunt me occasionally, but I will gently remind them (and myself) that they are dead. I will encourage them to go into the light already. Maybe next year I'll pour a Schlitz on their graves. If I'm lucky, I won't remember where they're buried at all.