Don't Make Me Laugh. Sorry. I can't help it.

The Washington Post ran an article asking whether "fat jokes" are becoming more permissible in our culture after having largely been banished as cruel or unacceptable toward CPC people—those experiencing caloric processing challenges. The question posed was whether this is simply self-deprecating humor making a return or something more harmful.

One commenter observed, "Fatphobia never went away. People who were fatphobic and quiet now feel emboldened to be loud."

Perhaps.

Humor is strange that way.

A riddle can be humorous or silly. "Thou who stands on toilet is high on pot." The offensive part of that joke, of course, is standing on a toilet. Or even using the word toilet.  How inappropriate.  Only ladders and step stools should be afforded such privilege.

Human beings gravitate toward negative experiences and emotions. We gossip. We argue. We rubberneck at car accidents. Social media monetizes outrage because outrage keeps us engaged. Why should humor be any different?

I don't believe humor is something that can be entirely controlled unless you first shift the culture surrounding it. Humor doesn't exist in isolation. It reflects us—the beautiful parts, the ugly parts, and everything in between.

Do fat people laugh at fat jokes? Some do. Some don't. Do they make people uncomfortable? Certainly. Does humor sometimes come at someone's expense? Of course it does. Does it occasionally reveal an uncomfortable truth? Absolutely.

Or perhaps humor is simply another piece of the complicated ways our minds respond to stimuli.

I've also observed that sometimes people laugh less at the joke itself than at the person telling it. The awkward uncle at Thanksgiving. The comedian walking the tightrope between brilliance and disaster. The friend who can't finish the punchline because he's laughing too hard at his own joke. Sometimes we laughing at the absurdity of being human as much as we're laughing at the words themselves.

Laughing is not entirely a conditioned response. It is, in many ways, involuntary. Surprise, tension, discomfort, incongruity, absurdity—our brains respond before we've often had time to consult our values or our politics.

That doesn't absolve us of responsibility for what we say. Humor can wound. So can silence. Both are true.

When culture attempts to legislate humor, however well intentioned, I wonder if it is attempting to legislate something more fundamental than words themselves. Humor is one of humanity's oldest coping mechanisms. It helps us confront death, tragedy, hypocrisy, suffering, and our own ridiculous nature. It is simultaneously cruel and compassionate, juvenile and profound.

Perhaps the better question isn't whether certain jokes should or shouldn't exist. Perhaps it is whether we possess the wisdom to understand why we're laughing in the first place.

Sometimes the joke reveals something ugly about humanity.

Sometimes it reveals something true.

And sometimes, it's just a man standing on a toilet who should have used a ladder instead.

WNBA

 What does it say about the sport, the athletes and the fans when the most popular jerseys are Kaitlin Clark’s and Sophie Cunningham’s?  

Turning the Page on Homer's Odyssey

Do you like what I did with the title?  Homer's Odyssey?  Is that like Honda's Odyssey?  Never mind.

If you get the opportunity to see Christopher Nolan's The Odyssey, DO IT!  Wasn't sure I'd like it.  Not sure I would see it a second time.  However, it is FANTASTIC!  Clocking in at the 3 hour mark.  In my mind it has a relevance in entertainment similar to James Cameron's Titanic released in the late 90's.  An epic story taking the time needed to tell.

Made for IMAX.  The movie almost demands large format screen to capture the visuals and a beyond capable sound system to carry the movie.  

This is probably the first movie I've seen in, well.....  ever that wasn't set in the 19th, 20th or 21st centuries.  Originally penned in roughly 700 B.C.  It's an oldie but a goodie.  The story was complex.  The story charts the full circle of Odysseus.  Rich with tension and conflict of a leader.  Convictions of perceived truth only to realize convictions can be misaligned by given authority transitioning to permission granted to lead.

There is one irritation with it I cannot put aside.  Elliot Page is in it.  For those who don't know, this person was born Ellen Page.  Sex was recorded female at birth.  And Ellen decided she was a he and did all the things to make the costume permanent.  Mutilated her body.  Completely.  Who does that?  I wonder if it is happy?  I am unable to understand how permanently altering your god given body cures mental illness.    

So essentially you have a girl masquerading as a guy in real life and in the movies. Once again, more cognitive friction to affirm someone's chosen identity. She doesn't look like a man. She can decide what she wants to be. At the same time, her facial and body structures are determined by the genetic differences between men and women. Her neck lacks laryngeal prominence. So sure, she's put the time in at the gym to become jacked in both film and life. But looking at photos of her, she's not a man. She's an expression of a man. That is not an authentic existence.

If you ask me, it's two levels of make-believe occurring at the same time. First she's playing a male role in real life, and then she's playing an additional expression of a man on film.

According to Page's biography, Page publicly came out as a lesbian in 2014. It seems to me Page wants to be a heterosexual man. My take: she's a homosexual woman.

Like what on Earth? How does one reconcile this from a truth point of view? I am unable to accept what I perceive as a departure from biological reality. That inability is mine, and it creates cognitive friction I cannot ignore.

Christopher Nolan could have cast any number of actors that would have captured the same visual and dramatic qualities without introducing that additional layer of cognitive friction for me as a viewer.

Overall, The Odyssey is a stunner of a film.

A well done adaptation of one of ancient literature's greatest stories.  Two thumbs up.  Matt Damon, Anne Hathaway, Tom Holland, Charlize Theron and John Leguizamo as Eumaeus - Excellent.  The film and performances are worthy of recognition by critic, peer and public.  

Homer's Workout

Unusual email received today.

A while back I was curious about chair yoga, chair tai chi, or some other exercise routine requiring less athleticism than standing upright. I filled out an survey about my goals and moments later I got an email letting me know my custom workout routine was ready. I read further and saw the price. My interest in improving myself immediately lost a cage match with my interest in keeping my money.

A few days later I received an email informing me that my workout routine had been personally reviewed by an expert at the company.

Personally reviewed.

Not only had an actual human reviewed the program selected by their algorithm, through careful analysis of my body type, goals and habits they manually changed the recommendation to something they determined would better meet my needs.

That's amazing!

An expert at a virtual workout company took a personal interest in me. Me! A person who didn't buy anything and had absolutely no intention of buying anything at the price they were asking.  I wouldn't have bought it if it was free.

I was touched.

Wait...

There's more.

Today I received another email informing me that the workout plan specially curated for me by their expert is now sold out. If I want it, too bad. I'm forced to wait until it returns to stock.

Say what?

Let's review.

A computer analyzed me. Then a human overruled the computer because they cared more deeply about my wellness than either of us realized. They lovingly handcrafted a fitness journey uniquely suited to my body and aspirations despite my complete unwillingness to pay for it. Then they sold my destiny to someone else.

Apparently there are only so many copies of my digital chair exercises available.

I don't know whether to feel rejected or honored.

Somewhere there's a warehouse with empty shelves where my workout routine used to be.

Perhaps demand exceeded expectations. Thousands of Americans simultaneously discovered they could exercise while remaining suspiciously close to the couch.

I can only imagine the scene.

"Johnson! We're out of Chair Tai Chi for middle-aged Homers making questionable life choices!"

"Get manufacturing on the phone immediately!"

"We can't! Our coach hasn't personally reviewed any more of them yet!"

For now, I'll wait patiently for my custom curated workout designed for my body type, goals and habits to come back in stock.

If history repeats itself, I expect next week's email will inform me my personally curated workout routine is back in stock and available at at a discount. For a limited time only, of course.

Now they'd have to pay me to take it. I still wouldn't.

Target missed the mark. Again.

Being a human comes with certain responsibilities: caring for yourself, securing shelter, providing for those entrusted to your care and contributing something of value to society.   Men hold a certain unspoken place in society.  Protector. Warrior. Provider. Hunter. Gatherer. Protector of masculinity.  Fundamentally, I believe a man has a responsibility to exercise self-mastery. 

 Men are susceptible to the same temptations as anyone else—the perversions of the mind and the flesh, destructive impulses, and choices that can harm both ourselves and others. A true man must learn to tame the demons in his mind and guard his essence against becoming something destructive. Self-control is not oppression. It is civilization.

Retailer Target has always been a liberal outpost.  Gender-neutral restrooms, pride month promotions and controversial products marketed around gender identity.  All above have all contributed to that perception.  Their previous controversies included tuck-friendly swimwear and pride merch marketed to children.  Whether one celebrates those choices or opposes them, they are undeniably  statements of values. 

Just when I thought it was safe to shop at Target again, I quickly discovered that while the headlines have faded, the underlying ethos still exists. 

The store is clean and for the most part well kept.  I entered and went down the main aisle.  I look up and see what I initially thought was a man with long dreadlocks.  What I realized was a man with a beard.  Wearing lipstick.  And blush.  Effeminate men have always existed.  Masculine women have, too. What is not new is not their existence but society’s insistence that these struggles, identities and expressions must be celebrated and affirmed as unquestionably good.  That is where I part company with modern culture.

I do not believe every internal feeling or impulse requires external affirmation.  I do not believe every struggle should become an unquestionable identity.  Modern culture increasingly treats self-expression as the highest virtue.  I argue self-mastery deserves greater consideration. 

Part of my discomfort stems from what I can only describe as mental friction—the disconnect between what my eyes perceive and what society asks me to affirm simultaneously. Everyone experiences some version of this phenomenon. We all live with tensions between reality, perception, and belief. I simply have enough tensions of my own without asking to participate in someone else's.

Jamie Lee Curtis has a "sis" daughter and a "trans" daughter.  She has repeatedly remarked that people would be unable to distinguish her trans child from a lineup of 19 other women.   Perhaps that is simply a mother’s love speaking.  Parents will almost always choose love over an ideology when speaking about their children.

I don't know whether she sees this as something to celebrate, something to accept, or merely something to love despite the complexity. Frankly, it isn't my business.

History will ultimately decide how this period of cultural conflict is remembered. Universities will advocate one set of ideas. Public intellectuals such as Jordan Peterson, Ben Shapiro, and Matt Walsh will advocate another. Some churches will emphasize radical acceptance and love. Others will insist that God does not make mistakes and that contemporary understandings of gender represent profound confusion rather than liberation.

Whatever the case may be, my openness to giving Target a second chance was short lived.  Corporations are free to choose the values they wish to communicate, and consumers are equally free to decide whether those values align with their own.

Once, shame on you.  Twice, shame on me. 

Once is ignorant.  Twice is stupid. 

Thanks for playing.  Never again.

Wholesale Club Pricing

I dig the prices of toilet paper and toothpaste at the wholesale club stores. They're the only retail concept I can think of where you're asked to pay for the privilege of shopping there. Membership fees are essentially pure profit. A plastic card at a retail country club.

When we moved our son to another state, we did what habit told us to do. We went to Costco and bought the giant package of toilet paper and the bulk toothpaste.

Then we carried it into the house.

It suddenly occurred to me: How long is it going to take one person to use all of this? Does he really need that much of his money sitting on a shelf in inventory dedicated to wiping his butt and brushing his teeth?

We returned it and bought smaller quantities instead.

Yes, the price per roll and per tube was higher, but he didn't need nine months' worth of toilet paper tying up cash sitting in his 1 bedroom bunker.  Besides, who knows? Maybe after enough time Charmin dries out and turns into sandpaper.

The wholesale club reveals an interesting economic truth: it takes money to save money.

Someone living paycheck to paycheck may understand the value of buying in bulk better than anyone. They just may not have the cash available to do it.

I think about gasoline, too. Why does it often seem more expensive in poorer neighborhoods than in wealthier ones? I'm not qualified to answer that question, and I don't care enough to research it.

But the pattern is difficult to ignore.

Being poor often comes with a premium.

Deep Wounds

Deep wounds.  No matter how much time passes or work is done in therapy, some wounds don’t fully heal; for they run deep, penetrated into bone.  They still hurt when touched. 

I have childhood trauma from an experience where the pastor (PG) aka “the butcher” of our church played my dad like a fiddle every time there was an opportunity to dig his meat hooks in further.  My Dad’s dad died from cancer in 1979.  At every peak emotional experience, the reverend would exploit the vulnerability.  Wreck the moment by telling my father how much he is loved by god and too bad he wasn’t there to experience this.  They’d cry.  They’d hug.  They sang kumb-by-ya.  Over time the manipulation became the push of a button to activate emotional trauma where closure hadn’t been fully reconciled. 

My mom was a hoarder.  The house always looked like a literal war zone.  Jump to a time when my dad was at work. I was about 10 years old.  The reverend came to church with one of his friends to show him an elaborate electric train layout my dad had since he was a small boy.  My mom refused entry.  PG essentially ignored my mom’s boundary and barged in right past her.  My mom was crying.  My sister was crying.  I was crying.  And this monster went to the playroom and showed the train off like it was his.  I don’t know if my dad ever knew what happened.  If he did, he never did anything about it because he was ‘hooked.’

When I was a teenager going through confirmation, PG always wanted acolytes and crucifers for the morning service.  He would recruit someone from Sunday School to do it.  Sometimes a week in advance so the names could be printed in the bulletin.  If there was no one, he’d lean on the parents.  My dad was an easy target.  Next thing you know I was roped-in to doing it more than I wanted.  I was furious.  Every time I turned around I was stuck dawning a robe and being PGs puppet.  My Dad was too weak to honor my boundary because he was hooked.  By the butcher.

Eventually allegations of an associate pastor groping women surfaced and PG was ousted from the church for not taking appropriate action.  He was paterno’d except it was women instead of young boys.  The controlling synod fired PG and a restraining order was fired.  A dear family friend was taken out for collateral damage.  It’s par for the course when PG was using people to serve his needs instead of serving God. 

My Mom died and we had a funeral service at a parlor.  A close family friend who is still close friends with PG was assisting with funeral as was his wife.  While planning, I told everyone in the room if PG made an appearance at the funeral, I would deny him entry unleashing all the fury, anger and hurt I’ve carried since I was a child.  No one gets to celebrate my Mom when they abused her.  NO ONE.

A situation came up where my wound was pressed with a branding iron.  The emotion, anger, resentment, hurt and disappointment over the monster rose from deep within with the fury of an internal stalled out hurricane.  My dad wanted to show me video of PG working a funeral.  I was flaming angry.  My emotions devouring my ability to respond rationally.  I was bent for 18 hours.  Discombobulated.  A rage held at boiling point.  Eventually the intensity subsided.  I phoned my Dad and asked him what his intent was to have me watch the funeral.  He didn’t even know the lady being mourned.  He wanted to show me a song sung; I Only Imagine by MercyMe.  Sung by a choral master at a Lutheran church.  It was like watching a cracker break dance.  It was awful. 

I then told my Dad I was upset because he knows the wounds I carry from being abused by a person in power.  I told my Dad if PG was sitting across the table from me, it would take every bit of restraint for me not to reach across the table and strangle him with by bare hands.   My Dad apologized.  I appreciated his acknowledgement of the lapse in judgement.  He said he would be more diligent about not poking my deep wound.

Then I told my Dad that if PG is now going to be active and/or participating in worship services that he would have to make other arrangements to be transported.  I am no longer willing to open those wounds or have anything to do with PG.  I apologized.  He said he understood. 

It felt good to reconcile my feelings and let my Dad know I was hurt.  Surprised a 40-year-old wound hurts even more today than it did when it happened.  I guess that’s what happened when it wasn’t just hurt.  It was hurt with trauma.  Feel good I was able to have the conversation to share the hurt with my dad and the profound effect seeing PG again had on me.  Glad I waited and didn’t say something that would have damaged our relationship and hurt him.  Restraint.  Process.  Response.  Sharing.  Forgiveness.  Some of that happened today.  There’s still work to do.  It may only be resolved when either PG or my Dad cross the time space dimension and we all go our separate ways.

Deep wounds don't always stop hurting. Sometimes healing is learning which hands are allowed to touch them.