Polar Opposites

In the cultural melting pot that is America bigots and supremacists thrive partly because of our black and white view of the world. You’re either white or not, Christian or heathen, a member of the majority or the minority. I can’t speak for countries other than The United States because I haven’t visited any of them, let alone spent enough time abroad to develop a world picture bigger than the tableau I see from my metaphorical back porch. Maybe it’s this way everywhere– maybe mankind is incapable of thinking in anything but binaries. Hell, we’re predisposed to pairs. We each have two hands, feet, eyes, ears, hemispheres of the brain, et cetera, unless we’re “deformed.” See, there it is– if you don’t have two of any of the above listed things, something’s “wrong” with you. Anything more or less is a deviation. But our affinity for twos goes beyond biology. In American politics, for example, we have two major political parties, the Republicans and the Democrats. Sure, there are other parties, but Independents rarely garner more than a few votes. Occasionally the Libertarian and Green parties act as spoilers, taking votes from the two big boys, but never have third parties ever truly threatened the supremacy of The Donkey and the Elephant. In the last presidential election, for example, the Democratic candidate (Barack what’s-his-name) took 52.4% of the vote and the Republican candidate (I believe his name is Father Time) took 46.3%. That leaves 1.3% to the leftover parties. I voted for that Barack guy, not because I agree with everything he and his party wants, but because I agree with most of their platform. What a different election we would have had if there were more than two viable options. When we eat at a buffet (something Americans do too often, evidenced by our growing waistlines and shrinking arteries), it’s easy to pick and choose, to pass on the dry drumsticks or overcooked pork chops and instead opt for the roast beef. But when your options are cake or death your choice is already made for you. Unless you’re on Atkins. Then, by all means, enjoy you’re sugar-free Jello.

But our form of government, a representative democracy, has three branches. Many people forget this, that we have executive, legislative and judicial branches on our government’s tree. It takes an appointment (Sotomayor, I’m looking at you) or a controversial ruling (Roe V. Wade is not about the best way to cross a stream) to remind Americans that the Judiciary branch not only exists but also matters. Ideally, all three branches would check and balance one another. In reality, the White House and Congress make most of the political decisions. Again, it seems all our brains can handle is a dichotomy.

We find polar opposites in nature as well. Magnets literally have them. With the Earth’s rotation we get night and day. And let’s not over look sex. Every animal– okay, every important animal, sorry sponges, starfish and sea cucumbers– has a male and female gender. Humans have a hard time understanding transgendered and transsexual people because they don’t fit into our ‘this or that’ structure. We get ‘yes’ and ‘no’, but ‘maybe’ often baffles us. Homosexuality violates that same concept. We get putting a man together with a woman because that’s natural. Two girls together most can tolerate, mainly because our male-dominated society finds that erotic. But two guys, that’s icky. Or worse, some consider it a transgression against society or God. And three guys? Inconceivable to most. Two guys and girl? Only acceptable if one of the dudes is Ryan Reynolds and a pizza shop is somehow involved.

One of the peculiarities of the English is that it’s an amalgam of several other languages. Indeed, English integrates words from nearly every tongue. Back in the day, which was a Tuesday, when a new word was added to our lexicon it was paired with a more common word already in use. These ‘pair phrases’, like ‘odds and ends’, ‘prim and proper’ and ‘safe and sound’ were meant to help English speakers understand a new word by coupling it with a familiar one of the same meaning. In modern times colloquial pairs like ‘hard and fast’ or ‘down and out’ are not only unnecessary but also excessive. Why use three words when one will do? Is this another example of our dependence on duality? If so, I am ‘sick and tired’ of it.


There is only one true black, one true white, but infinite shades between. A visit to Sherwin-Williams attests to that. Ever try to match the wall color of the apartment you’ve wrecked in a vain attempt to recover your security deposit? If so then you know that barring removing a chunk of the wall to take with you, your chances of matching the color exactly are ‘slim to nil.’ Baytree white is different from off white which is different from eggshell which is different from cream. Sure, things would be simpler if all the grays went away. But how boring that would be. Variety, they say– and by they I mean the President and his wife– is the spice of life. Cumin is the spice of death, but that’s neither ‘here nor there’. So instead of thinking of things in twos, thinking a person either a friend or an enemy, a motive good or evil, a belief right or wrong, maybe we should start living in the gray. While I may believe in the validity of my point of view, and fight ‘tooth and nail’ to defend it, I shouldn’t dismiss the beliefs of others simply because they don’t coincide with mine. I don’t have to accept an asshole’s arrogant assertions, but I can at least tolerate them, if only for selfish reasons, so that my view, misguided as it may be, is tolerated as well. After all, there are billions of people on this planet, ‘by and large’ made up of ashen, smoky and silvery shades. No blacks, no whites, just grays.

Birthdays and Karaoke Legends

It may surprise some of my readers that I am not the young, sprightly figure that I present myself to be. It surprises me that I even have readers, let alone that they think about me at all, but if you do, then surely you must consider me young of heart. But I am actually twenty nine years old, an age that frightens many unmarried maidens and unaccomplished lads alike. I am especially distinct in that at twenty nine I am both unmarried and unaccomplished. That’s completely my fault, like world hunger and racism. If I weren’t so lazy I’d be married (or civilly united) and accomplished, and everyone would have full bellies and no one would be afraid of the black guy in the bar parking lot at 2 AM (in most cases, it’s just Shay macking on a semi-sober sorostitute).

But the world is not perfect and I’m not either. So at twenty nine, on the verge of thirty, I have done none of the things a less lazy person would have on a list of things to accomplish before aging three decades. I don’t have such a list– I’m too lazy to write one. But I’m trying to overcome my own mental inertia. My complacency is on my mind daily, but more so because of my birthday. I try not to think of aging negatively– rationally, the older one is, the more experience and knowledge one has. Realistically, the older one is, the more regrets and mistakes one has. But those regrets and mistakes are important in that no matter how much I wish I had accomplished I wouldn’t be here today without all the bumps and potholes that have modified my path. Sure, where I am is not where I want to be, but at least it’s not where I’d hate to be. I’m not dead, a meth addict or working a dead end job I hate. I’m alive, a pot head and working a dead end job I can tolerate. So at least I’m better off than a corpse. They don’t celebrate birthdays. In that respect the dead are like Jehovah’s Witnesses.

At some point birthdays lost their specialness for me. They became ordinary days, just like Tuesdays, tax days, election days and holidays. I don’t celebrate any of those, though I of course observe them. That is to say I know each of these “special days” are actually special, more important than regular days, like Tuesdays, though I would argue that Tuesdays were, until recently, one of my favorite holidays. That was the day I went to O’Corley’s for the dynamic duo of bar games, trivia and karaoke. Trivia challenged my mind– it pitted my intellect against the intellects of my fellow bar patrons, giving me a realistic view of where I ranked on the IQ scale. Some nights I’d go home feeling thoroughly defeated, others pompously triumphant. Karaoke challenged my inhibitions. It pitted my self-consciousness against my love for music and self-deprecation– singing badly never bothers me when I’m drunk. But at the end of July the music died. Since I can remember Mad Jim has MC’d karaoke at O’Corleys, but he took his last waltz last week. Tuesdays will never be the same.

When I first moved to Valdosta oh-so-many years ago I wouldn’t be caught dead on stage at a bar. I’d have been mortified to do karaoke. I drank less then, too, and the two are not unrelated– I needed more than a little encouragement from my friends Jack, Jim and Jose. Actually, I exclusively drank vodka and cranberry juice back then. I convinced myself that cranberry juice was good for my kidneys, thus mitigating how bad vodka was for my liver. I don’t remember the first time I actually sang karaoke, but I remember the song– Love Shack by The B-52’s. I also remember Mad Jim distinctly– he’s hard to forget. The tall man with a striking white mane of hair and beard, if he were in robes instead of a top hat, could pass for Gandolf the Grey. Always the showman, always the congenial host, Mad Jim will always be the first name I think of when I think of karaoke. Even when I didn’t deserve it, even when I made a complete drunken ass of myself, he tolerated me. That’s more than I can say about my family. For eight years Jim made Tuesdays important enough to request that day off from work every week. But all good things must come to an end. Jim is retired so now Tuesdays are just like birthdays to me– not special, just another day.

As for my unaccomplished, unmarried, lazy, twenty nine year old self, I’m okay with everything I haven’t done since coming to Valdosta seven years ago. Maybe it’s fitting that karaoke is no longer a part of Tuesday-holidays for me. I’ll use the last year of my twenties to work on conquering my various vices, though to do so I’ll have to stop letting my subconscious bully me around. Easier said than done– I envy anyone with a peephole through that locked door.