Do Atheists Have a Place in America?

In the fall of 2011, I sought out a printer to print a collection of short stories I had written. The collection was entitled “Iambic Pentagram,” and contained a dozen short stories and essays, mostly satirical and humorous social insights and observations. One of the essays was called “Why I am an Atheist.”

There were two mentions of a Christian God in the essay. They were:

1. If I knew Jesus was truth, I would accept that truth. If I knew the Christian God was the God I ought to believe in, I would believe, just in the same way that if I knew any other possible God was the God I should believe in, I would worship that God.

2. I’m not mad at the world and I’m not mad at God. No matter when the world ends, hopefully God will know that with the rational mind he intended us to have led me to deny his existence.

That was my best and most genuinely honest approach at remaining open-minded and asserting to an audience that I knew would be partly Christian that I have no problem with Christianity or a belief in God. I simply do not believe in God. I understand that when some people hear the word atheist, they automatically attach a number of meanings to the word. For example, he must be a jerk and dislike religion.

I understand that. I have seen it happen and I have met the people who fit that exact description. But that is not me. And that does not describe many of the atheists and agnostics that I know. Have we not all met someone from a particular group that misrepresented the group as a whole?

Regardless of my “best and most genuinely honest approach at remaining open-minded,” the printer refused to print “Iambic Pentagram” because as the CEO of this North Carolina-based company told me over the phone, “You’re trashing my God and I need to put my foot down as a Christian.”

It would be difficult to argue the legal issue of his refusal to print my booklet. My limited understanding of legalities tells me that he had every right to do so. However, the fact that he blatantly misunderstood my statements as “trashing God” led me to believe that despite the safety measures I took, he still felt that as an atheist, I was anti-God and had a deep-rooted hatred for those with a religious affiliation. He was wrong.

Let us reverse the scenario. Suppose I were the CEO of a printing company which publicly also has no religious affiliation. One day, a Christian wants to print a booklet and one essay states, “I don’t have a problem with atheists, but my rationality has led me to conclude there is a God.”

That is not a controversial statement by any stretch of the imagination, but I were to refuse to print this person’s booklet, would it not make me seem like I am being a bit sensitive and perhaps anti-religious? Arguably, many more people would consider this latter scenario to be more unjustifiable as compared to the scenario that I actually experienced.

To get a better understanding of this issue, a 2007 Gallup poll showed that 53% of Americans would not vote for an atheistic presidential candidate. This statistic points us in the direction that there is a distrust of atheists in America. Unfortunately, the Gallup poll does not answer why.

There is perhaps a polarization in the American religious spectrum because oftentimes, the question boils down to, “Are they Christian or non-Christian?” In a sense, and of course not always, Jewish people, Muslims, atheists, and agnostics – and pretty much anyone who is not Christian, get lumped into the same category. In a Christian dominated country, this sense of polarization should not seem brand new.

Robert Sims, 22, a philosophy/religion and history major with a youth ministry minor at Flagler College identifies himself as a strict Roman Catholic. He said, “Ignorant and thoughtless people may certainly marginalize or negatively view the atheist or agnostic and vice versa. Unfortunately this type of person or this attitude tends to prevail as the majority among our contemporaries.”

Offering greater insight as to why the Gallup poll shows numbers that look unfavorably upon atheists, Sims stated, “I think that almost any person prefers people who agree with their opinions – be them religious, political, or otherwise – over people that do not agree with them.” This makes sense in a country where one practically must be a “strong Christian” in order to win a presidential election.

Jared Smith, 23, a Flagler College graduate with a degree in philosophy/religion and political science, has no particular religious affiliation. His response to this matter was, “In certain areas of the U.S. atheism is seen as a stigma, and I think that is a hold-over from the time when religion and morality were viewed as synonymous. But in more and more areas of the country, Christianity is becoming less of a presumption, and people are generally more open to their friends or colleagues being atheists.”

In the Gallup poll, just 7% of Americans would not vote for a Jewish presidential candidate and Mormons got a harder blow with 24% of Americans refusing to vote for them. The question of course then is, what often separates atheists and agnostics from those with a religious background? Why do the numbers jump to a startlingly 53% when atheists are brought into question? A person refusing to vote for an atheist or agnostic may easily claim that those who are not a member of a traditional organized religion (i.e. Christianity, Judaism, Islam) lack a moral fabric.

Many people not only find a moral compass in a religious environment, they believe it necessary to have a religion in order to have a moral foundation – and to not be associated with a religion means to be without morals. Is the statement “No God, no morals” a true one? Of course not.

I’m not saying that refusing to print my booklet is “religious intolerance.” But you have to ask yourself why people without a religious affiliation continue to be looked down upon by people with one?

A Narrative of My Recovery as a Homosexual

My name is Jesse and I was afflicted with a horrible, debilitating disease. The disease was not of the genetic or contagious kind, but it was the result of a foolish decision I made in my youth. It’s ok, you can take off the gloves. I’m all better now. I have been healed. I am cured from the disease of homosexuality.

Around the time I became a teenager, I was forced to make the decision: homosexuality or heterosexuality. I remember the morning quite well: I was sitting in my Candyland board game-inspired underwear eating Fruit Loops when I felt the urge to make the decision. It was brought upon one while watching the Ellen show in her first season. Ellen seemed so glamorous, so one-of-us, that when I found out she was gay, it seemed like the perfect opportunity to fit right in.

I felt that it would better my circumstances in life if I chose homosexuality. And who could blame me? The glamorous fame of Elton John, the in-your-face courageousness of Ru Paul, the high-spirited, pious success of the wise Ted Haggart – how could I possibly choose another sexuality? Especially a sexuality which included members like the brute and savage Johnny Rotten, the morally bankrupt Machiavelli, and the intellectually depraved Kirk Cameron.

I took time to weigh my decision. Should I live to experience blatant and widespread social and political oppression where I am the constant receiver of cruel jokes, getting jumped, and receiving limited rights? Of course I should.

Using free will, I made the conscious decision to become gay. Before then, my sexuality had not been determined at all. It’s not like I was straight and decided to turn gay. I was non-sexual as it were, and then made the leap, like a dashing fairy into a Cinderella night.

It was almost like the choice was made for me. Select the sexuality with the happiest members. It’s in the name gosh jolly! Gay! That’s what I wanted to be and it filled my every aspiration. My name is Jesse; it’s a man name, adopted by other rugged man like the hunky Jesse James motorcycle guy and that other Jesse James, the bad boy gunslinger. Even the honorable Jesse Jackson who preaches that we should love all bears my name, or rather I bear his. Jesse: a name for bears and a name that forebears masculinity! And I could be both by having the name and the sexuality. A match made in heaven!

But little did I know I was doing something hideously wrong. I was upsetting God. The all-powerful, all-knowing God who is capable of knowing what will happen to His creations after conceiving them, and who loves everyone no matter who they are. But He didn’t love me. I had disgraced God by choosing sin. Of course I thought it odd that God, out of love, would create a homosexual being, only to later condemn it to hell for being homosexual, but what did I know?

I had naturally great taste in fashion, music, and home decorating, but how was I supposed to know that that would upset Him? I was even accused of being in league with Satan, which seemed appropriate since without Satan, we wouldn’t have clothes – adorable, fashionable, eye-catching clothes! Was Satan gay too?

I didn’t know until one afternoon while I was walking down the street, wearing my brand new leather boots I had gotten a great discount on in New York just weeks earlier, when an angry man holding a protest sign reading ‘God hates homosexuals, fornicators, adulterers, drunkards, gamblers. Repent or burn in hell!’ shouted in my hear “fags are ruinin’ the country!”

I’m no drunkard even though I do just fall in love with the occasional appletini. And I’m no gambler even though I did risk a lot by buying salmon colored jeans in the spring. But burn in hell for being a homosexual? That confused me. I loved everyone, harmed no one, and was always there for my bitches.

I realized I had made a horrible mistake in choosing homosexuality when I had realized that the coupling of Jesse and homosexuality was actually a match made in hell, a blazing, tormenting hell intended for those with “genetic manipulations” as some called it. I will admit. I felt ashamed for being gay. I was beginning to recognize the horrifying effects of a decision I made when I was too young to understand the consequences. Soon after realizing the grave yet fashionable mistake I had made, I decided to voluntarily enter into a homosexual rehabilitation program.

Things were going great until about two months in. I had fallen off the wagon. If drunks can do it, so can gays. I attended an optimism seminar entitled “The Glass is Half-Full, So Go On and Have a Sip.” I heard it was positive, so I took that to mean it mentioned lots of God talk which I thought would take me over by osmosis and if I filled myself with enough God, there wouldn’t be any room left for gay. Earnest attempt.

The man who approached the stage this particular evening was a civil rights activist who did a lot of work with those who felt othered. He confidently walked to the podium and into the spotlight and spoke:

“Remember how the blacks couldn’t vote or even drink from the same water fountain as whites? It was before my time, but I saw the photos. It was horrible. They were treated as though they weren’t even human. Even the US Census considered people who were half-black, quarter-black, and even one-eighth-black, to be inferior to whites and thus restricted their rights. Even the Irish were at one time considered primitive and non-white. But alas, all fought for their rights, they earned them, and they now have them. Our society always found a way to marginalize a minority so they could discriminate against them and deny them their due rights, women included, and decades later we look back and say to each other, “Why didn’t we just give them the rights the deserved?” or more appropriately “Why did we deny them the rights they deserved?” Perhaps the LGBT community is the latest in the lineup.”

But I couldn’t make sense of it. Why had they invited this speaker to come talk our group? I had spent two months trying to “relearn heterosexuality” as it were, and I felt like I was on the right track, but the appeal of man’s natural rights spoke nothing about the hurt that God felt when He saw His children turn their backs on Him and turn gay. Rights don’t matter, not now at least, and not to the person I used to be. I’m a man again – a straight, football watching, weightlifting, meat eating man, and I’m so darn proud of it I celebrated by going out and getting an entirely new wardrobe full of beautiful colors.

I’m all better now, and let me just say – it feels so fabulous!

Discourse on Embracing Love – Even Though it Will End

Imagine this: One day you wake up and find yourself in the same position you were the day before that, the day before that, and for that matter, the months before that. You wake up, you have to go to school or work, and you’re already late before you even started. But this day is different and you don’t know it yet. Because this day you find the one you will love forever.

Who doesn’t want that? Perhaps those with deficiencies for true love like psychopaths, cult leaders, and those who ascend to earth from the underworld, but otherwise, I think many of us have woken up on Sunday mornings with the hopes and desires of finding someone who will love us for us for who we really are. In turn, we will do the same. We will mutually love that person for the essence of their being.

When they are ill, we will bring them soup. When they are sad, we will comfort them. When they are tired, we will help them lay tired bodies to rest. In short, it will be a lot like a relationship with Jesus but add some awesome carnal relations. And in turn, we will have amazing experiences with that person. We will climb mountains, figuratively and perhaps literally. We will have as much fun and enjoyment with that person at a red light as we would at a theme park on our shared favorite holiday in the perfect weather – because we have gotten to the essence of that person.

Many would describe this as finding one’s soul mate. In a Socratic dialogue narrated by Plato, Socrates and Aristophanes discuss soul mates. Aristophanes claims that humans once had four arms, four legs, and one head with two faces. Zeus separated the two, condemning every human on earth to spend his or her life searching for their other half.

Any sane person would reject this story as mythology; however to add to this list of mythological stories worth discussion, I would include Disney movies and romantic comedies that suggest merely finding our “other halves” would complete us, make us whole, and seemingly eradicate and make nonsense of previous worldly problems. It was Virgil of course who said that “Love conquers all things.” But does love actually conquer all things? Is this fairy tale romance something we should consider worth pursuing because it is actually obtainable?
Probably not.

Many of us want to fall in love. We lay our weary heads against our soft pillows and fall asleep dreaming of the one person who we can spend our last scores with. The one person who will accept us for our flaws, our imperfections, our bad morning breath, our hatred for people who chew with their mouth open, our despise for those who hate the political party we also hate. We want someone who loves us for our idiosyncrasies.

Being human, this seems like a pretty good deal to me. Where can I sign up?

Not so fast. Let’s look at the fine print. We must face the facts and statistics. Most relationships will end before you die. Let’s forget that marriages where one or both spouses admit to infidelity is 41%, and may then end in divorce. Let’s forget that.

Let’s say you have found the perfect person. They don’t care that you believe that Newt Gingrich represents the pinnacle of rational personhood, that you love to play video games when they have something important to discuss, that the garbage hasn’t been taken out in months and there is no more room to sleep in bed because the rat’s nest has overtaken the sheets that haven’t been changed since New Years 1999. Love conquers all, right?

When considering our options and abilities to be with someone forever, we should look at things as they actually are, not how fairy tales and western cinema likes to get our hopes for. If you have a partner, chances are more likely than not that you two will break up before getting married. When considering marriage, don’t forget to consider that over 50% of marriages in the US end in divorce. Let’s say you and your life partner never gets divorced, circumstances still do not quite live up to the fairy tale standards we have engrained and embedded in our soft, delicate hearts.

First of all, be happy that you found someone you will never divorce. Congratulations on either finding love, or someone incredibly apathetic or invalid. But chances are pretty good that one of you will die before the other. That means you will have to spend years alone without your soul mate while you spend a torturous life on earth paying taxes and getting stuck in traffic behind people with ugly, foreign license plates.

I don’t know which is saddest: never finding someone at all, or your fairy tale romance ending at a funeral which costs thousands more than the engagement ring that signified eternity.

There we have it: most relationships will end before you die. If they don’t, your partner will die before you. Therefore, the most romantic event you can hope for is to die together, like in a car accident. Don’t worry. There will be roses aplenty at your funeral. And roses are pretty damn romantic.

Regardless of the existential crisis this thought may induce, giving up on wanting or striving to find your most ideal sense of true love, in terms that you have defined, still seems silly. Because a life without any love or shared emotional attachment with another being will always be more lonely than the existential abandonment that may tear you shreds in your soul mate’s absence.

While fairy tales are a joke and probably detrimental to our emotional well-being and our approach to conducting romantic relationships, I will argue that having someone for a month or a lifetime seems significantly more valuable than having no one ever. As far as a marriage ending up in divorce, I am still too young to determine that value, but I would imagine it depends on the persons involved. Even though you will leave this planetary realm the same way you came in, that does not mean you should not embrace every waking, savory moment with another person – if you are fortunate enough to have and make that work.

So go get ‘em, but remember that all things come to an end.

Carving Your Way

Did you hear that? It sounded like the closing of a cave door collapsing into the ground from a cave occupied by a cave dweller. It sounded like a special effect from an Indiana Jones movie. Stick with me now. I’m going somewhere with this.

It sounded like someone was dragging a shovel over the cement. Remember the sound of shoveling snow? The shovel scraping against the driveway? It was like that, but slow it down. Yes, like that, a slow shovel scarily scraping.

This is what I really heard: The sound of his knuckles dragging. Walking down the street, one hand in hers, the other cave-dwelling appendage draped to the ground carving an imprint of his path making the sound of an ancient Egyptian slave pushing pyramid blocks. His knuckles leaving a Hansel-and-Gretel trail so we can find the destination of a slow thinker.

He grunted something inaudible to my distant ears, probably inaudible to anyone’s ears. She laughed and clenched his hand harder.

One of those laughs when the person doesn’t find something funny but they laugh because they are trying to appease the other.

One of those laughs that makes you want to advise the person to stop trying so hard.

Their sweat mixed together in each other’s palms, converged in the crevices and valleys of their life and heart lines. She looked up and to her right, deep into his eyes and thought, I hope he likes me; I’m insecure and I’ll suck his dick so he’ll like me. He looked down and to his left, deep into her eyes and thought, I’m going to fuck the shit out of her. Her transparent, white shirt and black bra underneath conveyed you’re not paying enough attention to my tits.

In order to convince her and the people around them he was intelligent and moral, he wore a white polo shirt with khaki shorts. Most everyone was convinced. They let him right in the door without checking any ID. Put on your church pants and everyone thinks you’re the one guy who follows the Ten Commandments.

Waiting for the white hand at the crosswalk, they kissed. Troglodyte DNA infused into her accepting mouth. More DNA to follow later; same location, different source.

Wondering what I did last night. Trying to piece it back together. I don’t remember pouring another glass of Jameson, but I did and the glass somehow made it into the sink intact. I try to piece it back together, but it’s difficult because all I can remember from last night is shards, fragments, like only receiving a few pictures from the entire roll dropped off at the photo booth.

Some touch of madness seems to take over when you see things other people don’t. And I do see many of those things. Yeah, I said it. I see things many other people don’t. You might. You probably have before. But let’s face it: lots of people do not see these things.

It could be a particular idiosyncrasy, a particular trend, whether that trend is an undercurrent in our society or culture, or whether that trend is a prevailing, obvious one sweeping the nation, gathering idiots into the tornado that will no doubt leave them on the ground, shattered in pieces of moronic fragments. It could be a trend with tangible goods, a trend with colloquialisms, a trend in behavior. It doesn’t matter. Like I said… gathering idiots into the tornado that will no doubt leave them on the ground, shattered in pieces of moronic fragments.

Don’t worry. They’ll gather themselves back up, glue themselves back together with false pretenses and some front that irrational people find charismatic, then wait for the next trend tornado to take them wherever they can’t take themselves because they lack the will power to do something on their own, make their own decision, or ignore the trend in the first place and be an individual, manifest the principium individuationis.

That’s why I despise the cave dweller: no fucking principium individuationis. He accepts that which is given to him and never seeks anything out that he can call his own. He fades into the background. He is the background. He lacks the mental and intellectual stamina and courage to separate himself. He thinks he is bold because he bought his opinions and cozily fits right in. I think he is weak because he cannot formulate his own or stand apart.

How disappointing is that? To live life without authenticity, disingenuously, fooling others and even worse, fooling yourself. We are all going to carve something during our short time on this planet.

One man carves the ground with his knuckles; another man carves himself with his ideas.

Where Should We Drink in St. Augustine?

You’re in downtown St. Augustine. You’ve spent the day pounding the pavement, beating the streets and soaking your socks in sweat. You took some photos at the Old Jail and the Castillo de San Marcos and none of them revealed a ghost in the background. You got stuck waiting for the Bridge of Lions’ drawbridge for so long you ran out of gas. You turned to your significant other, your friends, or if you are like me, you looked in the mirror and said, “Alright, it’s time for a couple of liquor drinks.”Now comes the critical moment where you need to decide where you want to get all liquored up. Where you go will depend on who you are with and how shallow you are.

If you are with your significant other, it’s recommended that you go someplace where memories can be made and cherished forever. Lucky for you, the human brain forms memories no matter where it is. But if you are going to form memories to be cherished as the decades go by, let them be in some place where there isn’t a conversation between men written on the wall of the women’s bathroom accusing each other of being gay.

Way to Impress ‘em, Stud

Setting up that first set of criteria immediately removes a lot of bars to visit, so let us be choosy about where we go from here. If your significant other is immediately attracted to shiny objects and impressed by status, I would recommend the overpriced Casa Monica. This small, quiet setting never features a band, thus allowing your significant other to hear the high price of the drinks you order and the sound of your wallet losing weight every time you close it after ordering another round. It’s small and ritzy, so dress to impress.

She Might Be a Keeper

If your significant other is someone who actually remembers your middle name before he or she knows your income, take said person to either the Tini Martini where you can enjoy an average priced drink overlooking the bay front, or Stogies. Stogies offers its patrons beer, wine and cigars. Naturally, being that Stogies is a cigar bar, you will leave smelling like an ashtray, but the nightly music is always great, the staff is always beyond friendly, and the owner, Jack, is personable enough to sit down with you, buy you a round or three, and talk the night away with interesting stories. Note also that the Stogies’ second floor is an eerie setting. The large room is as dark as the soul of whichever political candidate you don’t like, and has comfortable furniture and a chess board with missing pieces. It’s a favorite among locals as well.

Fuck it, Let’s Get Wasted

Earlier, I recommended that you go “some place where there isn’t a conversation between men written on the wall of the women’s bathroom accusing each other of being gay.” That’s not entirely true because sometimes you want to drink with your friends. Additionally, sometimes the best way to end the day is by loading up your belly with some cheap gin. Before I tell you about the bars you go with your friends, a story must be told.

I was at a dive bar next to the tattoo shop I used to work at a few years ago. A friend of mine who had just come home from his second tour in Iraq was drinking a bit heavily when he noticed a bro sporting a faux-hawk across the bar.

“I’m going to beat the shit out of that kid,” he sternly told me, taking another drink, resting his mug on the bar and then stepping up to approach him.

“This is fantastic,” I thought to myself, admittedly not doing my best at critical thinking.

My friend approached the guy and a loud argument broke out. Eventually, my friend was pulled off of him before a punch was thrown, and then pretty boy left. While I am glad that a fight never ensued, there is one thing I learned from that event: wherever I go, wherever I live, I want to go to a bar where a guy can get the shit beat out of him for having a faux-hawk. If this appeals to you, and it shouldn’t, then I recommend the Gigglin’ Gator, known to locals just as “the Gator.” The Gator is no doubt the origin of many DUI’s.

Here is how to best describe the Gator. Remember when you spent the day getting sweaty, walking around the various historic sites and tourist attractions? Remember when you saw a lot of sketchy people roaming the streets? The Gator is where those people are when the sun goes down. It’s like Tarantino’s “From Dusk Till Dawn” except the bloodsucking un-human creatures at The Gator can go in the sunlight. The drinks are priced well, and the dark atmosphere is reminiscent of a nightmare you never wake up from. Also, the past year has an impressive catalog of extreme crime. Don’t go to the Gator unless you have a gun permit.

A good second behind The Gator for freaks of the night would be the St. George Tavern, known to locals simply as “The Tavern.” This is a good place to go if you are a hipster or simply on the run from the law. It’s dark and smoky enough to not be easily detected by anyone. My favorite reason for liking this bar is that the drinks are dirt cheap, matching the décor of the place. The bar is long and narrow, just like a cigarette, bringing me to mention that they are conducting a century long study on the effects of second hand smoke at The Tavern. You can’t stop in to ask for directions without leaving smelling like a burn victim. Both The Gator and The Tavern are like a trip to the human circus where they serve alcohol.

All of the Above Sounds Stupid. Seriously, Where Should We Go?

If there are not such harsh restrictions on where you want to drink like impressing your significant other or watching a knife fight in a parking lot, and you are actually just interested in a few solid, decently priced, well-poured drinks and good conversation, I highly recommend Scarlett O’hara’s, known to locals just as “Scarlett’s.” Scarlett’s is great because after the fiftieth time you go there, some of the staff remembers your name. Furthermore, the atmosphere is comfortable and the bar food tastes a little bit better than bar food. It’s a great place for celebration or relaxing, a fifth date, but never a bar mitzvah.

Warning: not all times at Scarlett’s are great. Sometimes they have a cover fee of two dollars. Cover fees and door men tend to attract a high bro population. If there is a bro alert, remember, stay indoors. Bros are known to produce horrible conversation, mimic wild apes and cavemen, and drag girls along with them who are as equally repulsive by their combination of four pounds of makeup, bleached hair that could scrub the graffiti from the women’s restroom, and conversation that ruptures eardrums by its sheer stupidity and shallowness. Also, a high bro population could spark the bropocalypse.

If this summary of bars has still not assisted you in where to go for drinks, just remember this St. Augustine saying that no one has probably said: “Whatever. Let’s just go to Scarlett’s.”

The wall: a division between two humans

The day before Easter this year, I ran into an engaged couple I know. The groom-to-be is an attorney (eerily similar to Patrick Bateman) and the bride-to-be, well, she defines her existence by the size of her engagement ring.

I did not say hi to them because the last three times I saw them, they pretended to not see me, so on this occasion, I acknowledged their existence, then got on with life, waiting to order a medium coffee at Starbucks–a local Starbucks that does not correct you, saying, “You mean grande? This particular day, however, this couple decided to break their habit of ignoring me.

“Phil!” The engagement ring spoke with so much vigor she gained permission to ignore me for our next three run-ins.

“Hi, how are you,” I said, shaking Patrick Bateman’s hand, then his fiancées.

“Just getting some coffee. You?”

“Pretty much the same.”

“Great, how have you been,” she asked, getting the obligatory question out of the way.

“Great,” I said, knowing you can never say anything but great, good, or pretty good. Then you ask how they are.

“Great.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I don’t know,” I said, “going to the gym, reading a bit…you?”

“We’re going to church. Are you?”

“No,” I responded.

“Why not?”

“I’m not really into church,” I told her, acknowledging the wall that slowly, yet inevitably, began growing between us–a fence between neighbors, a language barrier between friends.

“Well, you should come to our church. The way you’re dressed, you’re overdressed,” she said with spunk, pointing to my t-shirt and jeans.

The wall was there. I could have said, “I don’t believe in God,” but that would have been interpreted as: You are different. You are the Other. You are the marginalized group. I am Christian, you are not. You lack morality, you…

O.K, you get the point.

But all I said was, “Yeah, I’ve been to those churches before,” followed by something else, equally as dry and barely responsive. I had just a limited amount of responses.

I could have said, “Sorry, I’m not going to church. I’m an atheist, but I respect that you are going to church.”

Sadly, that is not the case. Because of the wall. The wall creates a line of division preventing two people from understanding each other. The wall says you are different, you are coming into my territory. I do not understand your motives, your intentions, your beliefs, your traditions, and everything about your life.

The wall marginalizes and depending on the circumstances, accepts one person or group as the preferred and stronger, and the other group as the Other; the marginalized, the weaker, the one to question and be weary of. There is a misunderstanding there.

There are seven billion human beings on Earth.

Before we are Christians, atheists, agnostics, Muslims, homosexuals, bisexuals, transgenders, Zoroastrians, Republicans, Democrats or Libertarians, we are human.

You have probably already experienced this, based on the fact that you have a religious, political, and socioeconomic background. We are different, and that is fantastic, but without the wall, we are still both human beings, right? Do we get anything from the wall besides miscommunication and judgment?

If we exclude people from our lives because they are different, we will surely miss out on great people. Take it not just from someone who has been misinterpreted, but from someone who has missed out on others. Tear the wall down and get to know someone.

New Orleans, Decadence, Free Will, Determinism, Agency, and Vomit in the Streets – After

Last week I told you I was going to New Orleans for a philosophy conference, the New Orleans Workshop on Agency and Responsibility (NOWAR). Being that it was my first time in New Orleans, I had a lot of preconceived notions about what to expect. Those potential misconceptions were:

•Enough frat boy and homeless person vomit on the streets to be able to “Hansel-and-Gretel” my way back to my hotel room.
•White tourists pronouncing New Orleans “N’awlins” with stupid grins on their faces and expecting me to play along.
•Vegetarian options at restaurants to include bread and water.
•That bread and water to cost as much as an actual meal because it was given a name to impress tourists like “Our Famous N’awlins Cajun Yeast Bread!”
•Random insane debauchery.

Here is the only thing I was wrong about: “White tourists pronouncing New Orleans “N’awlins” with stupid grins on their faces and expecting me to play along.” This could be because I spent each day, from morning until dusk, in the philosophy conference.

Below are my experiences based on the bullet points of what I expected to find in New Orleans and ended up finding in New Olreans.

Regarding: “Enough frat boy and homeless person vomit on the streets to be able to ‘Hansel-and-Gretel’ my way back to my hotel room,” and “Random insane debauchery.”

What actually happened:

Many people believe the apocalypse is going to happen while they are alive. If the apocalypse is ever going to happen, it will no doubt begin in New Orleans (maybe not; I have yet to visit Vegas or Harold Camping’s house on Thanksgiving). If it really does begin in New Orleans, it will begin in the French Quarter and will be appropriately titled the “Bropocalypse.”

The amount of bros in New Orleans seemed a bit high, but upon further empirical research, it was observed that per capita, the bro rate was actually quite average. It only seemed high when walking down the street avoiding the toss of beads from guys whose greatest thrill at night is encouraging girls to lift their shirts up.

While New Orleans is known to outsiders for its jazz and culture, it is known to people who walk down the French Quarter’s streets for its shitty, mainstream rap music, barely-clothed strippers in thresholds dancing to entice you to visit the unclothed strippers indoors (for more information, buy a Girls Gone Wild DVD). Free plastic beads will be thrown to you from second story balconies and, depending on your IQ, the music will be horrible enough to either pull you in or push you away.

My first thought after walking a quarter mile in the French Quarter was “As soon as I get back to my hotel, I’m going to burn my shoes so the STD’s in the streets don’t creep up through the soles of my shoes, through my socks and into my soul.”

The French Quarter’s streets are so disgusting that a century long flood of bleach would still not sanitize the centuries old streets. If you are the kind of person who occasionally likes to wash their hands before they eat, you may not like New Orleans. If you are the kind of person who would eat a McDonalds hamburger found wrapped up and ambient temperature in an alley, you might really like New Orleans.

Regarding: “Vegetarian options at restaurants to include bread and water” and “That bread and water to cost as much as an actual meal because it was given a name to impress tourists like ‘Our Famous N’awlins Cajun Yeast Bread!’”

What actually happened:

Ok, none of the bread I saw had a stupid name meant to entice tourists. I was wrong. Sue me.

Not every restaurant had no vegetarian option; some offered a lame chicken alfredo I could order without the chicken. Way to get crazy in New Orleans. Next time I might try the caesar salad with Italian dressing.

New Orleans is known for its seafood. That’s why if you want to open a restaurant in New Orleans, you will fail if you do not serve fresh catch and frozen shrimp. Another way to fail? Make sure your vegetarian options are a list as long as good Cher songs.

In most restaurants in New Orleans, note that checks at tables cannot be divided and distributed individually. Checks can only be given to the table as a whole or simply divided in half. This is fantastic news considering we can put a man on the moon but we can’t divide a check. On top of that, many places are cash only.

This city’s slogan should be “New Orleans: World Famous Tourist Destination…and cash only.”

One specific situation of ordering a vegetarian dish at a seafood restaurant my first night in the French Quarter (“Quarter” because it is only twenty-five percent of Hell) was the waitress forgot my food.

That’s ok. Mistakes happen and I don’t believe I am exempt from being the victim of these mistakes. In this situation, it was obvious the server was lying and said something about the kitchen being backed up. My entire table received their meal, including the two other people who ordered the same thing as me.

Again, that’s ok, mistakes happen, even lies, but here is where that mistake/lie became annoying: After politely inquiring as to my food’s whereabouts, I was told by my twenty-something white waitress on my first day in New Orleans, “Don’t worry, baby, I’m a feed you.”

I just drove nine hours. I have eaten only shitty gas station food all day. I know you don’t know that, but my stomach and brain do. Don’t call me baby and don’t tell me you’re going to do what I am paying you to do.

“I’m a feed you.” No shit. I don’t go to hospitals and ask what they do. Stop talking to me like you’re a stripper.

In conclusion, I learned a lot about agency, responsibility, free will, determinism, desire, volition, blameworthiness and psychopathy. I also learned that New Orleans was dirtier and more decadent that I had previously anticipated. I’m willing to give this fantastic city another chance, but I probably will not return unless it is for another philosophy conference or a friend’s wedding. After all, why return to New Orleans when there is still so much of the world to see?

After attending a three-day philosophy conference, what was my greatest lesson (after all, philosophy is the love of wisdom)? Spending five minutes walking up on the down escalator in the Intercontinental Hotel. Not only physically exhausting, but also mind-blowing.

I am not saying you should never visit New Orleans, but I am saying it does not matter if you ever do.
________________________________
1 – I’m sure the situation is not a matter of technology, but a matter of tourists being pains in the ass, but if I were to acknowledge that I could not make the joke.

New Orleans, Decadence, Free Will, Determinism, Agency, and Vomit in the Streets – Before

I’m going to New Orleans tomorrow for a philosophy conference, the New Orleans Workshop on Agency and Responsibility (NOWAR).

It will be my first time there. It’s a notable experience because it is second on the list of “Places I Don’t Give a Shit about Visiting” right after Vegas. It’s second on the list because of some preconceptions I have about this downtrodden yet popular tourist destination.

I acknowledge these preconceptions could currently be misconceptions because everything I know about New Orleans I have learned from hearsay and movies. I presume New Orleans to be a place of decadence, filth, disgust, sin, violence, and bitchin’ Cajun shrimp gumbo. Aside from violence (NOLA is the nation’s murder capital) and bitchin’ Cajun shrimp gumbo, those are the only two reasons why it is second to Vegas on my list.

Reasons why I don’t care about Vegas:
•One Elvis was enough.
•Gambling is boring. Too many people think they are experts at gambling but their bank accounts disagree.
•Guys walking around in expensive clothing thinking they are hot shots living the “Vegas Life” do nothing for me. It’s like watching a child walk around in a Batman costume. You admire them for their vivid imagination of being able to convince themselves they are something more than human because of their clothing.
•“What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” roughly translates from Neanderthal to Homo Sapiens as “I’m a fucking douche.”
•I don’t want to get married tonight, I don’t care about gambling, I’m not interested in prostitutes, and I’m not interested in giving away my rent money to some guy with slicked back hair who brags about his sexual conquests.
•This guy sums it up when he says, “Las Vegas: Like God Took a Shit in the Desert!”

Now that I’m done spewing hate on my (perhaps false) preconceived notions of Vegas, I will list my current (perhaps false) preconceived notions of New Orleans. When I return, I will detail what I actually experienced. That way, I can put my foot in my mouth online requiring me to do a lot of backtracking to avoid looking like more of an asshole than I did by posting this. So, things I am potentially falsely expecting from New Orleans:

•Enough frat boy and homeless person vomit on the streets to be able to “Hansel-and-Gretel” my way back to my hotel room.
•White tourists pronouncing New Orleans “N’awlins” with stupid grins on their faces and expecting me to play along.
•Vegetarian options at restaurants to include bread and water.
•That bread and water to cost as much as an actual meal because it was given a name to impress tourists like “Our Famous N’awlins Cajun Yeast Bread!”
•Random insane debauchery.

Aside from the decadence, sin, and violence of New Orleans (again, very potential misconceptions), I am excited to attend this philosophy conference. Subjects such as agency, responsibility, free will, determinism, etc. are incredibly interesting and I am excited to expand my knowledge on them.

As I mentioned above, I will detail my experiences when I return from New Orleans. I don’t particularly care if I am right or wrong about the above presumptions, because it will be an enjoyable, educational experience regardless.

Oh, it should also take mention that I received this email earlier:

I’m sure many of you have heard about the nasty goings-on in New Orleans on Halloween night: two people were murdered, and 14 were injured in gunfights around the city, and two such fights occurred in the French Quarter.

I want to reassure you that, while gunfights indeed happen on a regular basis in New Orleans (it isn’t just skating by as the murder capital of the U.S. on reputation alone), for them to occur like this in the area of the French Quarter is actually quite rare indeed (there have been only five shootings in the Quarter and entire surrounding area up to this point in 2011). I of course urge you to exercise caution while in town.

Side note: If you are thinking about robbing my apartment while I’m gone, know that the only thing more expensive than my laptop is my hundred-dollar Target couch that is more uncomfortable than a stadium seat, is stained with beer, and is covered in dog hair.

The Endpoint is Not Your Lipstick

My latest article, The Endpoint is Not Your Lipstick can be found on The Well Written Woman’s website. It can also be found right below this.

I have an ex-girlfriend who had body image issues. I remember one night on the couch, in the midst of severe depression, she was tugging on the “fat” in her arm. She was obsessed with it. She wouldn’t look away from it. She just lay there, staring and tugging, staring and tugging, ignoring my every attempt to remind her she was beautiful, even rejecting me when I tried to convince her of the truth.

There was nothing there. There was no fat. There was no real problem. The problem was in her head. We were both on the couch feeling helpless. She felt helpless because she could not get rid of the “fat” in her arm; I felt helpless because I could not convince and remind her that she really was beautiful and there was no fat to obsess over.

It’s common for women to feel this way. Unless you are a woman who has had body image issues, it is easy to forget how common it is. In reality, one in 200 women suffer from anorexia. Just as scary, 50% of girls between the ages of 11 and 13 see themselves as overweight. It is frightening and unnerving when you consider that these issues begin in girls so young and that their consequences are often so deadly. Twenty percent of people suffering anorexia prematurely die from complications related to their eating disorder, including suicide and heart problems.

The opposite side to the above story about my ex-girlfriend is this: she was incredibly narcissistic. I’ll sum it up by paraphrasing something she once said to me: “No matter where I go, I’m always the most beautiful girl in the room.”

A normal reaction to the above quote is an eye roll.

We recognize the sadness and fragility of a person who is suffering from such emotional damage that they feel valueless because they don’t believe their body image is up to society’s standards. We also recognize the absolute reprehensible nature in a person who no matter what, believes they are aesthetically superior to anyone, anywhere.

Either way, what both extremes suggest, is a strong fixation and obsession with self-image, with a self-imposed requirement to adhering to society’s standards of beauty and with being accepted because of physical appearance.

I’m not going to write that you should not care about being physically beautiful. You should. It seems to be an inevitable desire of humans, but we should also recognize mediocrity in it. We only screw up when we go to one extreme or the other. I would like to find something clever to say right now, but one of the most absolute annoying clichés I have ever heard is just so fitting: it’s what’s on the inside that counts, not what’s on the outside.

For anyone assuming that beauty is all that gets you there, remember: you can’t just be beautiful and end it there. You need to bring more to the table. Don’t show up and expect to be let in the door just because you are fortunate enough to have the right genetic code and store-bought makeup so that most guys will drool over you. And don’t think that because you are not as beautiful as the girl who spent five hours getting ready this morning that you are any less valuable.

What is most impressive is that you worked at something in life, that you have tried. Show people you have put in the work, that you have succeeded and that you have failed and gotten back on the horse. We want to see what you have learned, not that you managed to dress yourself in the morning.

I have met women who know of these problems, recognize the polarities involved, but instead of fixing the problem they aggravate them. Some of these women complain about the societal pressures imposed upon them by advertising, models, television, movies, etc., then continue to dress in the way they feel they are being pressured to, which not just perpetuates the problem, but makes it harder for women who do want to do something about the problem. Don’t wear a miniskirt and tube top and complain that you’re being objectified by men.

If you don’t like it, don’t be a part of it. I’m not going to change the world by being a vegetarian, but I’m also not partaking in a system I disagree with. Confidence is sexy, not half a pound of makeup on your face, or being so skinny your bones are visible through your shirt.

I know. It’s hard. It’s hard to abandon and throw free the shackles imposed upon you by our judgmental and narcissistic society, but you must. If you are content with being materialistic, then live that unfulfilled life, but if you know there is more to life and love than how much better your ass looks in that dress than the other girls in the room you’re jealous of, then liberate yourself. Never settle for just being hot.

Look beautiful, feel beautiful, be beautiful, but don’t stop there and don’t rely solely upon that external shell and makeup. I can’t tell you what is going to work, but I can tell you that if you rely solely upon your physical beauty you won’t find anything truly and intrinsically meaningful.

You can’t date someone unless you are physically attracted to them, but that foundation is not the end point. I don’t know what that end point is, but it’s not your fucking lipstick. The endpoint is not having the best abs; it’s not having hair with the most volume and bounce, and it is definitely not about being the thinnest woman in the room.

Have some substance, fearlessly and vehemently be yourself, then patiently wait for what will inevitably come. If you are only beautiful on the outside, you are a spy who will inevitably get caught. If you are genuine and respectful on the inside, you are a wonderful person who will inevitably get caught.

Liberate yourself by being yourself.

What It Means to Be a Man

It’s hard for me to befriend males. In simplest terms, most guys are douche bags. Women are constantly baffled by this. Let me reaffirm the fact: most guys are douche bags; probably somewhere around 85%. That means I cannot be friends with 85% of guys. Why? Their idea of what it means to be a man is completely wrong. They have no idea and they are out in public right now.

I remember one night working at the tattoo shop before I moved to St. Augustine. I was mopping the floor, our nightly routine before we closed the shop, while the shop owner was tattooing someone. A fat girl sat in one of the barber chairs used for tattooing. The conversation the five the room’s occupants were having led to the discussion of me being a vegetarian. The girl in the chair chimed in:

“I used to be a vegetarian, but I got really sick.”

“That’s funny. I’ve been a vegetarian for a few years and I’ve never felt healthier,” I told her.

The response from the girl who use to substitute her meat with Doritos and Bud Light was, “Why don’t you be a man and eat meat.”

I could have responded with, “Why don’t you be a woman, get on the treadmill, then put on a sexy dress and high heels, then cook that meat for me.”

I didn’t say that because I can handle those situations rationally and because, well, I don’t believe that is what makes a woman. Being a “man” or a “woman,” is not a matter of fulfilling the stereotypes our society provides us, it is a matter of disregarding them and doing your own thing.

I know women who wear a lot of makeup and just generally slutty clothes, but also complain about the draconian pressures imposed on them by our culture that they “have to dress like that.” It seems quite foolish to me that they will complain about those standards while simultaneously upholding, maintaining and reinforcing them, making it harder for the next generation of women to battle.

As a man, I face similar pressures, occasionally drink too much gin or whiskey and complain about them, but I never fall victim to them. Why? Because I’m secure and I don’t really give a shit about them.

That is why when the sick girl in the chair at the tattoo shop tried to lay waste to me in her bout of ignorance, it rolled off my shoulders and I kept on moving.

The point is simple: having a penis does not qualify you to be “a man.” Yes, biologically, someone with a penis is a male, but being a man takes much, much more.

Examine this: I am a man who practices yoga and doesn’t eat meat. I also lift weights and have enough tattoos to convince an old woman I sell drugs and have no moral fabric. Immediately, you probably see a contrast in those first two sentences. The first implying I have traits some self-proclaimed men would deem “gay” (not my words), and the second sentence, traits that make me manly.

While I acknowledge that any yoga class I have been to has primarily consisted of women and few men, and that women are 60% more likely to be vegetarian than men , I argue that calling an activity masculine or feminine is a social construct. Obviously, there is nothing inherent in those activities that make them fall on one side or the other. We assign these social values to them and the secure people, male or female, break them down.

Males will say, “Only women do yoga,” and I will retort, “I do yoga because I care about my body and mind and yoga has great beneficial effects for both.” Males will say, “Only women and/or faggots are vegetarian ,” and I say, “I have well thought-out reasons for not eating meat. You probably eat meat because you think you have to and just because you always have without having given the reasons why careful consideration. Also, you’re a moron.”

If we are going to make choices, we have to have reasons for making those choices, otherwise, we are foolish. Being rational and utilizing our intellect, instead of ignoring it so we can comfortably fit into our niche of what is manly, is what really makes someone a man.

Ask me why I do yoga, lift weights, have tattoos, am a vegetarian, am an atheist, and I’ll tell you why. The reasons I give you will be thought-out, point by point, rational reasons that are a result of using my intellect while you sit on your couch driving McDonald’s chicken nuggets and Mountain Dew down your throat yelling at a television. If that makes you a “man,” I’m sorry our culture has gone astray. I might even finish my argument with a solid “QED” and “Get fucked.”

The things men do because they think it helps to define them as men does not just make them less manly because it conveys a strong sense of insecurity, it also prevents them from getting laid because intelligent women recognize them as knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing troglodytes. Case in point, who is more manly? The guy in a pink polo shirt with tribal tattoos starting fights at bars, or the guy busting his ass all day long at work to support his family?
Of course marketers know how to take advantage of men’s insecurities and while the makers of Axe Body Spray and shirts with foil dragons profit, I lose because I have to deal with the people they profited from. Being around these self-proclaimed men, remind yourself: be aware of your surroundings, pay attention to what is happening, but beware what you will witness, the complete degradation of an entire gender.

It has been a long time since anyone said, or even implied, that I am less manly for doing yoga or am a vegetarian. I don’t think I present the image of someone you can say that to, but if they did, I wouldn’t care. I would say, “I don’t care,” and mean it literally, not like when some people say it and they’re red faced and angry (think commercial rap songs).

I have known males whose very vision of what it means to be a man has literally ruined their lives. If I go to a bar with a guy who points to a woman in the room and says, “Check out that bitch’s ass. It’s so thick and juicy,” you can guarantee I won’t be hanging out with that person again. I have very few male friends whose company I enjoy because of this and other reasons. I don’t want to hang out with guys who say, “Let’s go out tonight and find some chicks.” Unfortunately, these guys are screwing themselves over and they don’t know it. They are victims because they have failed to think.

I want to surround myself with people, male or female, who are intelligent, ambitious, inherently good people and have a sense of humor.

Being a man does not mean you can win a drinking contest, beat someone up, or be proud of the fact you don’t know what a troglodyte is. It does not mean you eat meat three times a day and have had a lot of sexual partners.

To be a man, you have to be yourself, make your own decisions with rational, thought-out reasons and have personal accountability. It means you are secure in who you are. It means you can make a decision, stick to it and deal with the consequences whether they are good or bad.

Until more guys understand this, my circle of friends is going to stay incredibly small.