Confusion, ball tanning and more!

 

Dear you,

I am confused about many things, but today I’ll focus on two “lite” sources of perplexity.

Confusing thing #1 – Ball tanning. Ball tanning is in the news, thanks to Tucker Carlson.  One of his culture wars obsessions is virility or, as he would claim, a virility crisis.  Men are becoming unmanly!  It’s a plot by the left!  His cure involves shining a red light down under.  He is not kidding.  Quote rollinstone.com, “As with many outlandish claims supported by no evidence, the notion that low-level laser therapy will increase testosterone and fertility is not new.  Red light therapy – or as the Hungarian scientists named it in 1967, photobiomodulation – is experiencing a renaissance in potential treatments for muscle recovery, depression, and wound healing, topics regularly discussed on far-right wellness podcasts with affiliates links to massage guns and infrared saunas.  Which naturally led some men to strip naked and point the light at their balls.”

Naturally.

Kinda like drinking Lysol or ingesting horse meds to fight Covid.

Naturally.

Take a mental picture of this.  These men are straddling a laser device and pointing the light at their balls. What is wrong with these people?  As far as I can tell, there are tons of men-on-top structures and assumptions that still dominate as norms.  So what is this panic all about? Why burn your balls?  Is it about me and people who think like me?  Are we destroying virility? Case in point, the local Thunder Beach Motorcycle Event taking place now in Panama City Beach and all along 30A.  I’ve been embedded in these events for years now, and I have NEVER EVER EVER seen this:

A female in front, driving the bike, with the dude in the back, arms wrapped around her waist.

Always, always, the girls are hanging on and out of control.  The exception is when two women are on the bike.  That seems to be accepted, sister and sister front to back on the Harley.  But even then, the picture mirrors the man-woman model.  Typically, the driving gal is bigger, butcher and the passenger gal is smaller and “fluffier” (more bedazzled touches on her denim or pageant hair blowing in the breeze).

Why is this the way it is?  Why do we women have to sit at the back of the bike? Tucker should take comfort in this gender norm.  No need to ball tan your average biker dude.  Unless he happens to be a Democrat.

Confusing thing #2 – DeSantis v. Disney, Disney potentially losing special business status.  Yes, Governor DeSantis is still on a roll finding ways to punish those who oppose his whims.  The latest I heard today is the legal challenge by Disney may be strong; #DeathSantis might lose this one.  However, I wondered about his counter moves.  If Disney keeps its status, will he attempt to spread the wealth and gift this to other, more Floriduh-conservative friendly theme parks?  Who will he choose?  His perfect candidate, Church of All Nations at Holy Land Experience.

Located in the Orlando area, the park/church/whatever opened as a Christian-based theme park.  It enjoyed a non-profit status and offered services, exhibits like a replica of ancient Jerusalem, activities for children and little theatrical events like reenactments of the crucifixion.  That sounds fun.  Anyway, this park closed in 2020, not due to Covid, just a loss of money. 

Hmmm, DeSantis might muse, the closure of a godly play space for my Christian supporters could be blamed on the left too.  They used their insidious Mickey to lure our children into the happiest place on Earth, i.e. their gateway to hell and grooming station supreme.  The power of this evil theme park overwhelmed the goodness of the Holy Land Experience!  I can bring them back, give them the special status and tax breaks they deserve!  I can give them incarcerated Floridians to use as free labor! And I can make their park even more competitive and holy by constructing a Ball Tanning Ride for the male customers!  Ball Tanning for Jesus! 

This is not really happening, but it is within the realm of the possible here in Florida, where confusion reigns supreme and biker chicks know their place.

So, I close this little diary-chat.  I hope you are confused by ball tanning and Governor DeSantis too.  If those two things ever make sense to you, call 911.

I wish you clarity!

Love,

Joyce 

Sacrifice.

 

Dear you,

Spring returns.  It’s Easter Sunday and I am thinking about sacrifice instead of bunnies and birds.  Bummer.  Sacrifice.  How far would I go for someone, for us?  What would I be willing to do to stop the assault on Ukraine, to stop environmental wreckage here/everywhere, to stop the expansion of xenophobic nationalism here/everywhere?  I write the checks, make the calls, Tweet the politicos, speak bluntly to the Trumpy foes around me.  Doesn’t feel like enough.  The ups and downs continue, one day hopeful and the next pretty discouraging.  Each of us living in relative safety are experiencing a mix of impotence and courage.  Impotent courage?  Courageous impotence?  An oxymoron life.

Christine Smallwood’s narrator talks about experiencing that mix of impotence and courage in her recent novel, The Life of the Mind. The narrator imagines encounters with the children of the future, how they “would ask what she had done”.  She talks about the petitions she signed, random donations to causes and sensations of “regret”.  The children say, “Nobody cares about your ten dollars a month. . . You should have chained yourself to a power plant.”

That would take unequivocal courage, unquestioning sacrifice, like those made by the numerous volunteers headed to defend Ukraine.  Some are qualified, some are not.  All they/we need to do is go to the website fightforua.org (International Legion of Defence of Ukraine) and find out what to do.  Many Americans are totally willing to volunteer.  But what if the current perception of this war changes and we decide to go all in?  This could be big, and we’d definitely have to expand the number of armed service members. Volunteers wouldn’t be enough.  If that happens, would we need to reinstate the military draft?

Of course, The Onion addressed this possibility in their typically sassy way.  They featured fictitious Zoomers contemplating what they would do if they were drafted. Responses:

“Try to become a senator’s kid.”

“I’d pay a gig worker $30 to go to war for me.”

“I already wake up every day thinking I might have to take on an active shooter, so I’m ready.”

“I would leverage the experience of war for my college admissions essay.”

Typical of good satire, this all sounds like truth, something we’d hear if conducting a real survey with real Americans.  What’s in it for me?  How can I get out of this bloody obligation?  Well, there might be something in it for you, for me, for anyone who is tiring of the weak-tea freedom and contingent safety of our USA.  Perhaps we should all be planning a move to the brave land of Ukraine.  No time for impotence there.  Let the migration begin.  Why not?  Here, just this week, a jury in Michigan found the men who wanted to kidnap their governor not guilty.  Oklahoma declared abortion illegal, totally. A democratic contender for the senate in Iowa was barred from running due to supposed “irregularities” in the petitions supporting her candidacy. Said irregularities were pointed out by Iowa Republicans, of course. The weather oracles predict a highly active 2022 hurricane season, and the housing market is still insane.  (Please Google “tiny house Santa Rosa Beach, Fl.” Check out 196 square feet of nonsense listed for over a million dollars.)  Sounds like a good time to migrate!

Fantasy aside, I know I’ll stay here.  Too much sacrifice has gone into this USA experiment.  I, while sighing loudly, will persist; continue writing checks, making calls, Tweeting demands, and speaking bluntly.  However, I am still haunted by Smallwood’s children of the future:

“You should have chained yourself to a power plant.”

I hear you. Sacrifice is required.

Happy Easter 2022,

Joyce

Goodbye, girl.

 

Dear you,

I type while waiting to hear the latest on peace talks between Ukraine and Russia.  Peace?  After all this carnage?  I cannot imagine any conclusion that isn’t simply contingent.  Like all things.  Like us.  Another thing I am waiting to hear is the latest check-in of tourists, another state, another spring break cast of characters.  And I am also waiting for sounds I know I will never really hear again, the meows of my cat. 

Last week, the kitty stopped eating and drinking water altogether.  By Sunday, her body was depleted and she barely moved.  That night I slept in the bed she chose and woke to her sad eyes.  Normally, a morning is a zesty time for her.  Nudging me awake, chasing me around, mewing for her Fancy Feast breakfast and a good combing session. But this Monday morning, she lay still on the bedspread.  I stroked her back and her little head.  Around noon, she stood and stared at me, then she crawled under the bed. She’s withdrawing.  She’s in pain. Time to go. I called the vet and let him know I’d be in that afternoon so we could send her on her way. The next few hours were a blur of tears.  I split into two selves; one grieving and one determined to be strong and just face it.  My deranged dialogue brought her out from under the bed, just in time for me to place her in the soft carrier and drive to “the end”.

The procedure was simple, humane (I guess) and fast.  One shot to sedate her.  Then the next; the one that kills.  That was it.

She’s gone.

I told my friend James on the phone today that this was the first time I ever experienced someone’s death, being there as they leave their body.  It was not what I expected.  Once she left, I stopped crying.  Her little cat body was just that, a body without spirit.  I felt relief, for her and for me, settled details about cremation and drove home.  Without her.

When I returned to the condo, I went into automatic mode and called her name as I always do, did.  I had to self-talk my way out of that and let determined Joyce take over:  throw out the litter box, the shredded scratching posts, the backstock of Fancy Feast and Temptation treats, and (for some reason, the hardest thing to do), her toys.  I kept one item:  the biggest scratching post remains in the room that was her spa.  That extra bedroom was her lively space; now it’s a cross between a haunted memorial and perplexing art installation, an open beige space designed for a feline but now without the feline.  A garden without flowers.

The clock on my laptop now reads 3:39 PM, another one of her favorite times of day.  The grieving me remembers this was snack time, chase the yarn ball time, freshen the litter time, stand next to her as she perches in the window time.  Grieving me is tearing up but determined me is taking deep breaths and carrying on.   The carrying on feels a bit flat and joyless, but I persevere.  I know I’ll get back to joy in time. I will once again be “vivo”, Spanish for living, full-tilt alive, clever, and bright.  Just like my girl. 

Yes, her name was Vivo!

Salud, little one.

Forever I love you,

Joyce