Tuesday, August 19, 2008 | by nathan

What It Feels Like For An Arachnophobe

[image redacted - even a photo of a spider creeps me out too much to have on my own website]

First off, my apologies to anyone who simultaneously follows me on Twitter and reads this blog, because you’re getting entirely too big a dose of this drama. But after the day I had yesterday, I couldn’t not blog about my arachnophobia.

Also, I’m sorry if that photo scares you. It’s freaking me out, and I’m effing typing underneath it.

So yesterday was freshman move-in day at the university where I work, and staff were basically told that, as far as parking goes, we could piss up a rope. I got up and it was raining, a welcome change from the usual triple-digit, miserable August weather, but still. Raining, and no place to park at work, and tons of freshman carrying boxes everywhere, and I e-mailed to say I’d be working from home. My boss wrote back telling me that that sounded like a wonderful idea, and where could he sign up?

So I made my usual smoothie for breakfast, let the dog out, and got to work.

At about 10:30 my stomach started to growl a little, so I thought I’d take 5 minutes and run up to Eley’s for some fresh fruit. Still in my pajama pants, t-shirt and canvas Crocs, I walked out the door. As I was locking it I saw a little movement out the corner of my eye, and looked down. The next thing I knew I was in my front yard, eight feet away, and screaming my head off. That spider in the photo had been at my feet, living and existing, and that’s a problem for me. It was bigger in diameter than a half-dollar, and watching me, sticking its legs out like it was making gang signs. Every time I moved, he moved.

For me, arachnophobia is a psychiatric issue. Snakes, mice, bees - none of these things frighten me all that much. But when I see a spider, I’m running away and screaming before I even consciously register what it is that I’ve seen; that’s usually my first clue. Oh, look. I’m running away, terrified. I must’ve seen a spider. I can’t explain it, and I’m not altogether sure I can change it. It just is.

Here’s the problem. So I’m standing there, yesterday, outside the house. See, and I could’ve gone about my plan to go to the store for some fruit, but then I’d have to leave the spider to his own devices, and there were two possibilities. In Possibility #1, I come back and he’s still there. Between me and the front door. Which means, of course, that I won’t be able to go through the front door and into the house, and now here I’ll be holding groceries.

In Possibility #2, I come back and he’s gone. I’ll still be scared to go through the front door, and I also won’t know where he is, which means, of course, that he could jump out at any time and EAT ME.

Squishing him with my shoe isn’t an option. I’m not exaggerating when I say that it really felt like there was an invisible barrier between me and him, a minimum safe distance that my mind was making me stay away, and if I breached that, the world would likely end. Madness lay within two feet of the spider; it’s a compulsion, and, in this case, it was a handicap.

Usually, if I’m able, I can get just close enough to engage in chemical warfare with spiders. I’ll grab whatever household chemicals are handy. I’ve killed spiders with shampoo, Lemon Pledge, foaming tire cleaner, spray bleach. You name the Item Under The Kitchen Sink, and I’ve used it. It lets me maintain Minimum Safe Distance while also dispatching the threat. Squishing or, God forbid, picking them up with a paper towel and flushing them, requires the kind of proximity that my mind won’t let me enter.

The spider crawled into the space between the screen door and the front door, and I waited, almost in tears, for his next move. None came. Eventually, I realized that I’d left the back door unlocked, and I went around back and let myself back in the house, where I sat, my eyes fixed on the front door for any signs of a breach. There was none. Brian had to come home early to pack for a last-minute business trip to North Carolina, and he looked everywhere for the spider but found no signs of him. I’m still afraid to cross the threshhold of my house, but so far I’ve done it at least a dozen times. Each time I spend at least 60 seconds checking everywhere for him, and when I don’t see him I unlock the door as quickly as possible and charge through it at top speed.

Last night I was coming home from the gym and saw that another large spider had built a web in the archway of the porch. This time I had remembered to lock the back door, and so I took an old copy of the Gazette and tossed through the web, knocking the spider God knows where, and ran through the archway, onto the porch, where I searched frantically, in the dark, for either spider, quickly unlocked the door and danced, fearfully, through it, slamming it behind me.

It all sounds so funny to write about, and I imagine that, were I able to observe myself from outside my body, it would be hilarious to behold. But spiders inspire in me a kind of terror that comes from somewhere entirely chemical, entirely within my brain and totally psychological. People have suggested I let a spider crawl on me so that I can see that they’re not out to hurt me, and my response to this is, "REALLY? DO YOU WANT THE WORLD TO END BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT WILL HAPPEN." Last year Brian and I went to the Oklahoma Science Museum, where they have a tarantula in a cage, and I got tears in my eyes just looking at it, lying there, not moving, unable to get me.

The tiny little spiders that live in my garden aren’t a problem; my fear increases exponentially with the size of the arachnid.

It’s not a fun way to be, but if the treatment for it is to somehow be in proximity with a spider, the answer is an unqualified no. After all, I have spray cleansers and a husband who’s not afraid to skoosh them, and I think I can make it through the rest of my life with those crutches.

Friday, April 11, 2008 | by nathan

Like Winning A Gold Medal In the Special Olympics

Image via XKCD.

So I just wrote a whole post about people who seem to have time in their day to argue endlessly over points of philosophy and politics on the internet. It was a little judgemental, and when I went to post it, something miraculous happened - the internet and its magic - and the post disappeared.

When that post vanished, so did my irritation, somewhat. I canceled my MySpace account a few months back because I was sick of people who listed "Acitivism" under their hobbies, because I don’t consider "Activism" to be sending out endless MySpace bulletins about how Hillary is 200% MORE PRO-GAY THAN OBAMA AND HERE’S THE PROOF!

To repeat something I read somewhere (forgive me, I don’t recall where) - arguing on the internet is a bit like jerking off to your own photo. So I’ll just say this: if you really want to be an "Activist," if you really care about the world and want to make it a better place, let me tell you about this homeless shelter I know about where you can volunteer every other Saturday.

Saturday, January 19, 2008 | by nathan

Cloverfield

About six months ago I saw this killer trailer for this awesome-looking monster movie. I’m sure you’ve seen it. I’ve been dying to see Cloverfield since before I knew what it was called, or who was in it. Fact is, I really like J.J. Abrams’ work to date, and Drew Goddard wrote the thing, and I love that guy’s work on Buffy, Angel and Lost.

So Brian had a brain-flash that we should make seeing this movie a date event. We had dinner at the Paseo Grill, then went to the theater.

The movie was fantastic. A lot of people are going to hate it. They’re going to cite the shaky, Blair-Witch-esque camera work and the fact that a muscly guy never jumps out, throws the monster down and beats its ass. Those people are missing some seriously key components of good storytelling.

What was not amazing? There were people in the theater who literally talked EVERY SINGLE MINUTE OF THE MOVIE.

This makes me crazy.

Once, I was in a movie and the woman in the seat in front of me took a call on her cell phone. She talked, in her normal voice - not a whisper - for five full minutes. I kicked the back of her chair as hard as I could. People talking in movies makes me absolutely, completely crazed. I got an hour into the film before I realized I was biting down as hard as I could on the inside of my cheek, which is now swollen and was bloody all last night. I kept wanting to stand up and shout, at the top of my lungs, "SHUT THE ABSOLUTE FUCK UP!" Except, you know - restraint.

The second the film ended - I mean, in that instant between the fading out of the last shot and the start of the credits, some guy goes, as loud as he could, "Are you fucking kidding me?"

NOBODY CARES WHAT YOU THINK, DUDE.

Here’s what’s interesting: apparently this is a widespread phenomenon. Wil Wheaton has blogged about how many people he knows have had their enjoyment of this specific movie ruined by movie-talkers.

I’m still pretty pissed about it; my anger is only really tempered by the fact that it was a really brilliant movie. As someone who suffers motion sickness I can understand why a person might not like it, but I’m planning on seeing it again, mid-afternoon on a weekday, and this time, I’m bringing my gun.

Monday, January 7, 2008 | by nathan

At Least We’ll Have Something To Hang Ourselves With

This is what it looks like in the home of two geeks who live - together - in love but also occasionally buried under a large mound of various electronics.

This was taken over the weekend. The first weekend of every year we have a conversation about whether or not to buy a flat-panel LCD television to hang on the wall in our living room. We like having people over for movies, and at present our living room is not the most efficient use of space. Every time we have this conversation, however, we go to outlandish lengths to figure out how and where we’d put up such a television, how big we’d need, what kind, how much money we can spend, and whether or not prices will continue to go down.

And every time, we don’t do it. It’s always deeply frustrating because it adds up to almost an entire day wasted. In this case we put the current television - a thin, 43" projection television - atop the fireplace mantel just to see how it’d look, then pulled out the TV stand and started eliminating wires. We got it down to less than half of what is shown here, but still. This is ridiculous.

And we didn’t buy the TV. We couldn’t settle on one, and, as usual, we freaked out about the expense and chickened out, BECAUSE THAT’S WHAT WE’VE DONE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THE 3 JANUARIES WE’VE LIVED HERE.

Sunday, December 23, 2007 | by nathan

Little Boxes on the Hillside, Little Boxes Made of Evil-Tacky

Wednesday, October 3, 2007 | by nathan

I’m Over It

Things I Wish Would Go Away:

Chris Crocker. Seriously? Seriously? All manner of gay bashing aside (for which, as a gay man, I have diplomatic immunity), this kid is absolutely ridiculous. I’m all for challenging society’s norms, flamboyancy, and camp, but this kid doesn’t know what any of those words mean. He’s just another example of how, in today’s culture, people get more famous for being stupid, vapid, shallow and weird than for having any actual talent. Also, a bitch needs to eat something.

Britney Spears. I’ve wanted her to go away from the moment I first heard "Baby One More Time." I hate hate hate hate hate her. HATE her. I do feel sorry for her; clearly she’s suffering from postpartum depression, but the fact that I even know that much makes me sick to my stomach. My freshman year of college, all the lame-ass, Abercrombie-wearing (and working at) guys on my hall would blast her record for hours. It made me want to burn my ears. And let’s not forget the first guy I ever dated, who took me to see her awful movie. I more or less forgive him for breaking my heart; I’ll never forgive him for that. Fact is, nothing that’s ever happened in her career or her personal life has surprised me, because it wasn’t meant to; she’s been pre-packaged from Day One. She’s the pop culture equivalent of a Twinkie; her music is just audio MSG, and I’m allergic to MSG.

George W. Bush. How does a person get up in the morning and look himself in the mirror after vetoing health care for little kids? I do appreciate the intricacies of the "privatization" vs. "government" debate in health care, but GOOD GOD HOW DO YOU TAKE KIDS’ MEDICINE AWAY? You don’t get to do that! You just - do - not - get - to - do - that. They’re KIDS! They need MEDICINE! They don’t care who gives it to them! Their parents aren’t sitting at home going, "Oh, well, Johnny’s having another asthma attack and we can’t afford an inhaler, but thank GOD the government isn’t interfering in our lives!" Who honestly thinks that ensuring health care for every child in the country is wrong? Who seeks to profit from that? Isn’t it time for you to go? Aren’t you supposed to be leaving soon? I tell ya, the Rapture or January 20, 2009 can not come fast enough. You know what he needs? A spanking. Barbara needs to bend him over her knee and teach him a lesson. Of course, with all the things he’s done wrong in his presidency - let’s not even mention the things he did in the Texas Air National Guard or that horrible rumor he started about Ann Richards, it would take so long we’d be forced to make Cheney the acting president through 2009, and nobody wants that.

My 34-inch waist. Okay, people, I’ve been hitting the gym hard since May, and progress just isn’t happening fast enough for my tastes. From the 8th grade on I’ve worn a size 32, and then, last year - whoop! Gone! And I’m PISSED.

Carlos Mencia. I swear to God, I thought he was a Muppet until about a week ago. Then I find out his real name’s Ned Holness, he’s not Mexican, and oh? By the way? I’m pretty sure stand-up comedians are supposed to be funny. But I’m not a stand-up comedian, so.

"Virtua-Churches." I’M NOT SHOWING UP EVERY SUNDAY TO WATCH A SERMON ON TELEVISION. There, I said it. I know a lot of people - some of whom I’m related to - who find lots of value in these things, but I don’t get it. I don’t get the complete de-emphasis of personal relationships, theology and doctrine, and aesthetics. Also, I think it’s pretty cynical to think you’re going to win the hearts and minds of young people by just wearing a zip-up hoodie when you preach and having a band with loud bass.

My love for Private Practice. Good Sweet Jesus, I wanted to hate this show so badly, just like I wanted to hate its predecessor. But, I loved Grey’s Anatomy, and now, I love this. It’s funny, it’s engaging, it’s sweet without being cloying. Not the best show on television, but I can’t hate anything that starts with someone dancing naked to the Scissor Sisters. CRAAAAAAAAAAP.

Saturday, September 8, 2007 | by nathan

Testing

This is a test of the "I’m Being Watched By Society for the Protection of Male Country Singers" system.

George Strait is a douche.

This is only a test. Had this been a real male-country-music-star-bashing, this post would be followed by mean, nonsensical, crazy-sounding comments from people who have nothing better to do than troll the internet, picking on piddly little sites that are mostly only read by the author’s friends.

Friday, August 24, 2007 | by nathan

Angles Closes

Angles is closing. I’m a little stunned at how sad this makes me, considering that it’s been months since I’ve been in a gay bar, and I haven’t been in Angles itself since Pride 2006. Still, for a quarter of a century Angles has been the go-to place for the gay community in Oklahoma City, and really Oklahoma at large. It was the first place I went when I turned 21; Todd dragged me on the eve of my 21st, which was a Sunday, to the Sunday Night Drag Show. I was dressed in old jeans riddled with holes and a brown button-down shirt that I’d cut off because it was too long. It was a memorable night, to say the least.

Later, they started charging a cover to pay for the amazing light system they put in, and the lame-ass cheap gay boys in Oklahoma City stopped going. Even when the cover charge stopped, the crowd never went back. It’s one of the things that makes me hate the gay community in Oklahoma City, and my self by proxy, a little bit.

Angles has been effectively shut down for well over a year now, opening only 7-8 times a year, each time hosting a "flashlight" (read: "We’re too cheap broke to pay the light bill") party. I don’t know what the new owners are going to do with it - will it still be called Angles? Will it still be a gay bar? I was a little worried, I admit, that some lame-ass Gen-X church was going to open up in the space, and we’d have to deal with a bunch of tattooed Jesus freaks coming up to us like, "Hey, man! How’s it goin? Listen, before you go in that bar, let’s sit on the curb and rap for minute…"

Apparently that won’t be happening. Sigh of relief.

Anybody else going to this party? I really want to, but I’m also tempted to let Angles close without me, because I stepped out of the OKC gay scene a long time ago in a lot of ways. I used to be one of those faces you’d see out five or six nights a week, looking cute and occasionally picking fights. I was young and looking for - whatever. Friendship. Love. Fun. Now I’m less young, and I have friendship and love and fun, and to be honest I think the gay community in Oklahoma City could do a lot better for itself than the Habana Inn and the corner of NW 39th and Penn. Also, a lot of the time, the thumpa-thumpa gets on my nerves. But I remember Angles fondly, and I’m going to miss just knowing that it’s there. So yeah, I suppose I will go out one more time and wish it farewell. Who wants to come with?

Monday, August 20, 2007 | by nathan

?

I’m not a huge fan of the Greek system. It worked well at Wake Forest, where no one was allowed to rush a frat or sorority until spring of their freshman year. By that time, everyone already had friends, and when you found out someone had joined a particular house, it was like, "Oh? Really? Hm." Not that interesting.

At the University of Oklahoma, where I earned my graduate degree, the Greek system is out of control, but also has a freakish hold on the operations of the school. I found this out when I arrived there in January 2005. That fall, a freshman had died of alcohol poisoning during Rush Week. As the University scrambled to deal with this tragedy, suggestions began floating around as to a possible restructuring of the whole system. One of the options that was discussed was switching to spring rush so that incoming freshmen wouldn’t feel the need to join a Greek organization if they didn’t want to.

You’d have thought someone suggested that they ban football. There was a major uproar from the Greek community and its alumni, and though it seemed to me, a more or less outside observer, that spring rush might have been the sanest solution - I came from a university where it had worked beautifully, after all, where the Greek system was alive, active and healthy but no one’s self-esteem depended on it, as far as I could tell - it never happened. The University folded to pressure from its students and alumni, as often happens.

*****

This morning I pulled up to my usual parking space. I refuse to pay a zillion dollars every semester to park on campus, when the closest parking lot to my building is next to the baseball stadium, with signs everywhere letting me know how it is: If my car gets smashed by a baseball - or eight or nine - the University is not to blame. There’s no tall fence or any kind of barrier, and so if a stray pop fly comes down on my windshield, that’s just my own cross to bear.

During the summer they let us park on campus for free, and I took advantage. Now that classes have started up again I have retreated to my usual parking space, one street over from my building, on a residential street on the edge of campus, in front of a fraternity house.

Today I pulled up and noticed that, for the first time in over a year of parking here, there was another car parked in front of the house. Oh, and how charming! It had a set of those plastic testicles hanging off its trailer hitch. I won’t post a picture; if you live anywhere in Oklahoma, Texas, the south, you’ve probably seen them, or you will. 

So I get out of the car, and up walks a dude carrying a pizza. At 8:15 a.m. I’m not even sure where you get a pizza at 8:15 a.m.

"Hey, sir?" he calls.

Do I look like a sir? Twenty-seven years old, but babyfaced, and short, and I’m "sir?"

"Yeah?" I ask.

"You can’t park there."

"It’s a public street."

"No, that’s parking for the brothers. This is a fraternity house."

"There’s no sign."

"Our sign got stolen. But if you park there, we’ll have to have you towed."

"Why? No one has ever parked here as long as I’ve worked here."

"Can you not just park on campus?"

"Can’t you?"

"That’s parking for the fraternity brothers."

"The fraternity brothers aren’t using it. They never use it. There’s no sign."

"You’re gonna have to move your car."

"Fine." So, I get in my car, and move it across the street. I literally pulled a 3-point turnaround and parked on the other side, across from the fraternity house. The dude watched me, and I could tell he was getting ready to come out and say something, but I beat him to it. I climbed out of the car, shouldered my bag, and said:

"I’m parking right here. There’s no sign on this side of the street. If you have a problem with me parking here, you can come find me. I work in the law school."

His eyes got wide, and he shot me a scathing look, but turned and took his pizza inside. I felt at once oddly satisfied with myself and also deeply irritated, because I knew he was lying. They’d never had a sign, and they’d never had the right to declare a public street as reserved parking. Tow me, douche bags. I triple dog dare you. I promise, you’ll live to regret it. 

Friday, July 20, 2007 | by nathan

maybe they’ll find a way to pull his head out of there

So, for a little while tomorrow, Dick Cheney is going to be the acting president of the United States while Dubya is under anesthesia while he has a colonoscopy.

So - we’re going to war with, like, EVERYONE tomorrow, so be sure and read that Harry Potter book as fast as you can.

I’m not sure why Dubya needs a colonoscopy anyway. The report says they will be looking for signs of cancer, but I think it’s implied that they’re looking for BRAIN cancer.