Thursday, January 7, 2016

Guest Post: I Can't Accept Matt Walsh at His Worst, and His Blog Posts are Always the Worst.

BFFFL C. Austin wrote this in drips and drabs two years ago, when Matt fucking Walsh had a piece pushed to HuffPo, and it's been showing up in my feed in fairly regular rotation ever since; from people who I adore (and who Matt Walsh would hate - because they're single moms, or atheists, or feminists, or any of a myriad of reasons why Matt Walsh thinks you and your lifestyle are filth) again and again. We finally just compiled Austin's initial response(s), because friends don't let friends repost Matt Walsh's steaming piles of bullshit, at least not without a rebuttal. Thusly:

[Originally posted as a series of Facebook comments, in response to Matt Walsh’s oft-reblogged piece “If I Can’t Handle You At Your Worst, Then Maybe You Should Stop Being So Horrible”]

Gonna do this with cranky bullet points, because I don't want to spend more mental energy on this guy than I have to. Apologies if this is a bit muddled or unclear—but the original piece is meandering as fuck, so the response is gonna be similar. Also, this shouldn't be a surprise, but OH MY GOD THIS GOT LONG ANYWAY.


•First, the common ground: I agree with Walsh that horrible behavior shouldn't be excused, and that horrible people should try to be less horrible. But far from being a brave or honest or novel position to take, this is deep into 'NO SHIT SHERLOCK' territory, and you'd be hard-pressed to find anyone who would disagree with that basic premise. Much like his pieces supporting breastfeeding and stay-at-home moms, he's making a superficially correct point but connecting it to all sorts of terrible and unsupported bullshit, being intellectually reductive on every conceivable level, and promoting a childish black & white/good & evil/us vs. them worldview—all while congratulating himself for his insight and bravery. Nope nope nope.


•Apart from the obviousness, it's also a useless message to send on purely a pragmatic level. People who are unusually smug and horrible rarely realize—or care—that they're unusually smug and horrible, so any criticism that they're smug and horrible will just be smugly and horrible dismissed. People don’t like being told they’re horrible, especially when that message is delivered in an aggressive and condescending way. This approach never works, and I’ve got a perfect case study: OH HI THERE, LOOKING AT YOU MATT WALSH. When challenged or criticized, does he listen to those who disagree with him, engage in some self-reflection, and try to be more understanding of differing points of view or moderate his tone? Fuck no—he jeers at his critics, sets up countless straw man arguments, and doubles down on his inflammatory rhetoric (his response is usually more muted when challenged by fellow Christians/conservatives, but it’s still defiant, generally some variation of “you just don’t want to face hard truths” or “you didn’t understand my point”). Not once has he ever responded to criticism with “You’re right, I should stop being so horrible”; it’s always “Liberals who disagree with me are selfish baby-murderers who just want government handouts.” It’s the epitome of hubris to expect others to accept a lecture that he himself rejects out of hand.


…so, yeah, this is an approach that accomplishes nothing. It’s purely an exercise in smug posturing, and it’s deeply disheartening to see it resonate with so many people.


•His whole attack on the evils of participation culture is entirely anecdotal, speculative, based on nostalgic fantasy—oh, and undermined by his own personal experience. He asserts that growing up in a culture that awards simple participation either makes people insecure/ashamed or narcissistic/egotistical, and makes it impossible for them for form decent relationships…except for Walsh himself, of course, who grew up in that same culture but has a great relationship and turned out fine. Soooooooo he's flat-out wrong, and/or he believes himself to be the very most special-est snowflake, and/or he’s being disingenuous and vastly oversimplifying. Or all of the above.


•The whole divorce/relationship line of argument is such an ignorant non-sequitur that it makes my head spin, mostly because it's based way more on self-congratulatory moralizing than it is on facts. The divorce rate has actually been steadily *dropping* since about 1980, but hey, don't let data get in the way of being judgmental and wringing your hands over some imaginary moral decline. And of *course* there were fewer legal divorces a few generations ago—because divorce wasn’t legal, and that’s how laws work. Idiot. It sure as shit isn’t evidence that people were somehow “better” at relationships back then. The fact that there were few legal means to dissolve a marriage tells us *nothing* about the quality or health of those marriages. But yeah, whatever, marrying primarily for economic reasons and staying married because there were no other legal/social options—which was the dominant paradigm for marriage until a few decades ago; marrying for love and emotional compatibility is relatively new—*definitely* demonstrates how great people were at relationships, suuuuuuuuuuuure. ::eyeroll:: This supposed "crisis of failed relationships at every level” "appears obvious" only if you're an ignorant f{artcanoe} who doesn't know shit about history or human nature, and who somehow missed the memo that our cultural definition of 'relationships' is dramatically different than it was a half century ago. It's just more of this kind of nostalgic fantasy bullshit:
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•There's a lazy semantic dodge he pulls off here, where he conflates "accepting a person despite their bad behavior" with "accepting a person's bad behavior." The two concepts are quite different, yet he treats them as interchangeable and denigrates both. Not only is this goalpost-shifting an intellectual cheat, it seems particularly odd coming from an outspoken Christian whose entire goddamn religion is predicated on the concept of being accepted by a loving God despite your flaws, hating the sin but loving the sinner, etc. etc. He doesn't specifically bring up his religion here, but the position he's arguing here is 100% at odds with his oft-stated faith. Idiot.

•Speaking of dishonest semantic tricks: "accept" has a dozen different meanings, and he blatantly ignores the one that best fits the speaker's obvious intent, disregarding every definition except for the one that best fits his own twisted thesis. If he wasn't too lazy to read past definition #1 on dictionary.com, he'd see that accept also means "to accommodate or reconcile oneself to," or, even more appropriately, "to regard as normal, suitable, or usual." Traits like selfishness, impatience, and insecurity shouldn't be "received with approval or favor," I totally agree, but that's not what's being requested: the quote is about reconciling yourself to the fact that we're all imperfect, and not treating someone as abnormal, unsuitable, or unusual simply because they have some flaws. It takes a deliberate obtuseness not to recognize that, making his whole line or argument either breathtakingly stupid or monstrously dishonest. Or, y'know, both.

•Also, in his circuitous lecturing, he's somehow staked out this weird position where you can be loved by someone without being accepted by them. Not sure how that works, but it's more evidence of his incredibly sloppy thinking and/or sloppy use of language. Idiot.

•The latent sexism here is a pretty big deal, and it's probably my biggest issue with the piece. It's obvious that this is mostly targeted towards—or at least inspired by—women; the headline practically reads "If I Can't Handle You at Your Worst, LADIES, Then Maybe You Should Stop Being So Horrible." The quote he singles out is attributed to a woman, and the person who reposted it on facebook was a woman; even beyond Walsh's post, I'd be willing to bet that every time any of us have encountered this line, it's been from a woman. {Most of the time I see this reposted, it's by a woman. I can actively recollect only one dude in my sphere reposting it earnestly. ~M'ris} There's a good reason that this sentiment is expressed almost exclusively by women: as a society, we accept (even celebrate!) bad behavior from men, while we traditionally hold women to much higher (and generally unrealistic) standard. THIS LINE IS A PLEA FOR EQUAL CONSIDERATION, NOT SPECIAL TREATMENT. It's pretty much unheard of for a guy to post "Yeah, I can be a fucking asshole, but you need to accept me for who I am!" because there's no societal reason or personal need for a guy to write that—they have that acceptance by default. Women are pilloried for every imagined physical or psychological flaw, but society treats it as a given that men can find someone who will love/accept them despite their imperfections (and, tellingly, society often makes "fixing men" yet another responsibility of *women*, rather than the responsibility of men themselves). Also, lots of men—including Walsh—DO post the equivalent of “Yeah I’m a bitch, but deal with it” thing all the time, but they camouflage it in lofty ideological posturing, i.e. "I don't care if you're offended when I say that Planned Parenthood murders children and nothing else they do matters, I refuse to sacrifice my principles on the altar of political correctness." Make no mistake, the sentiment is exactly the same, and it's just as egotistical and self-involved as what he's piously condemning.

Anyway, the point is that there's a HUGE societal double standard when it comes to negative—but perfectly ordinary—character traits of women, and the whole "if you can't handle me at my worst" thing is a reasonable and understandable reaction to that. Our society has long told women that they must always be on their best behavior if they want to be rewarded with affection/consideration/respect/etc. from men; Monroe (or whoever originally uttered the line) was rejecting that one-sided expectation, making it clear that she was just as much of a mixed bag as men are, and that expecting *only* good behavior is both unfair and unrealistic.

•The headline and article just reinforce all that patriarchal bullshit, and (as I’ve pointed out already) all the arguments he brings to bear can just as easily be used against Walsh himself. What makes him so special that he gets to judge whether or not people are horrible? Is he such a gem that women should change their behavior so that *he* might find them more acceptable, so that they might bask in the glow of his superiority? His whole perspective seems premised on the assumption that yeah, he totally is. Fuuuuuuuuuck that.

•That being said: despite the fact that the meme’s message—given the historical and cultural context of its origin—is wholly legitimate, it's sometimes (often?) reposted these days by immature people as a defense of their own immaturity. And nope, I won't endorse, defend, or cosign that immaturity; it *should* be discouraged, I absolutely agree. It's infuriating when terrible people don't realize they're terrible, right? But here’s the thing: Walsh's piece is written in such a haughty and vindictive tone that it’s clearly NOT being reposted in a genuinely well-meaning or helpful way, but primarily as a way of riding Walsh's self-righteous coattails; it’s less about offering good-faith advice and more about sending a passive aggressive message to the drama queens and trifling bitches on social media. Which, okay, fine, we've all got a few of those on our feed, and they're often aggravating as hell, but you lose any moral high ground when you endorse something this stupid and mean-spirited. It’s a pompous and condescending lecture, not even remotely self-aware or -reflective, written purely as a rhetorical cudgel to be wielded against others. Consider: when you read it, did you think “He’s right, people shouldn’t accept me until I’m less horrible”? Or did you think “He’s right, I know some people I shouldn’t accept until they become less horrible”? I’m guessing that almost all of us thought the latter, because that's the tone in which it was written. That's not a message I want to cosign, not a tendency I want to encourage in myself, not a bandwagon I want to jump on. 

But again, the main thing that bothers me about the popularity of this piece is the gender disparity on display; guys are at least as bad about this kind of “fuck all y’all, I’ma do what I want” strutting as women are, but I've never seen that basic fact condemned and reblogged hundreds of thousands of times. Despite being relatively harmless, this kind of immature posturing is apparently unacceptable from girls, while identical (and far worse) immaturity from guys—on the rare occasion that it's even acknowledged at all—is simply given a pass. This is what Walsh feels is a priority? This is where he sees a massive societal failing? Sorry, Steubenville rape victim, Matt Walsh couldn't take the time to condemn your attackers, or address the entitled bro culture that encouraged and defended your assault: he was too busy writing about a woman who was egotistical once on facebook. His values are awesome, he's such a smart and moral guy.

(Aaaaaand what was intended as a quickie bullet-point rebuttal turns into a sprawling, multi-page comment that's longer than Walsh's original post. This same basic thing happens every time with Walsh’s posts, because there just ends up being SO MUCH BULLSHIT to address. His writing often seems reasonable or innocuous at first glance, but it's like a TARDIS of misinformation: it's way wronger on the inside.)

-- C. Austin, 2014

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

This Is (Actually) Why I Can't Have Nice Things

Caveat: there is a 100% chance I am writing this from a place of depression.

I didn't go to practice again tonite. It's the off season, and I don't have to go, but I should. Healthy-me knows that I like roller derby, and that roller derby makes me feel good, even when it's hard, and so, I should go.

Healthy-me is not home right now.

Needs-otters-me is in that place where practice is far, so I should stay home. Practice is independent study, and I don't do well on my own, so I should stay home. It's mostly been A team skaters showing up, and I am not A team, so I should stay home. Roller derby is for people who are capable of doing good things, for people who want things more than I do, who are better than I am, and so, clearly, I should stay home, because trying is hard and failing is easy and why leave the house when I can be the architect of my own disappointment from right here in this spot?

Thank you to ThePhotoForum user Overread for taking a bunch of really incredible pictures of really sad looking otters.

And, hey, since I stayed home, thus satisfying my terrible proof of only good people go to practice, I did not go to practice, I am not a good person, how about I just spend the rest of the night self-flagellating? That seems like a good idea, right? Of course it does.

I have a tendency (it's not a tendency, tendency implies that it only happens sometimes, this is a course of thought that I have roughly 100% of always) to believe that I am not worthy of good things. "Good things" is a catch-all term, but it often includes things like a base level of happiness, proper nutrition, and access to healthcare/medication. Without even looking at what wider circles of that clearly flawed logic include, it causes me to exist in cycles where I deny myself access to things that I should not be denying myself - my anxiety meds, decent meals, anything one could deem a "luxury" - in an effort to satisfy the part of my lizard brain that is more concerned with being right than being healthy. (My lizard brain is a jackass.) (I almost said dick, but I am making a concerned effort to remove gendered insults from my lexicon. Note to self, keep working on that.)

Which brings me to the point of why I opened my computer - I don't want to keep satisfying my lizard brain. Because it is a jackass. I want to figure out how to keep myself in check, to hold myself outside of that base instinct that I do not deserve nice things (kind things, healthy things, things that make my life more tolerable), and to not fall in to its clutches. I want to take my anxiety meds, even if I don't feel like I need them, because they don't just stop my anxiety after it ramps up, they are useful in preventing those feels in the first place. I want to go to practice, even if it's hard and I suck and I'm still afraid that I won't make Brawlers again, because I like roller derby. And because two shitty hours on the track are still better than two shitty hours sitting at home feeling shitty about myself. Because I understand that while the act of denial is in itself a trigger for the pleasure center, it is a terrible one, and there have got to be better ways of indulging those synapses.

I made a Facebook post vaguely about this last week, in an effort to hold myself accountable and not do the thing I just did all over again (skip practice and feel shitty about it.) Will writing a blog post about it help? Probably not. But writing out why I do these things to myself at least sucks a little bit of how terrible I feel about myself out of my insides, and that's helpful. Sort of. Take your meds, Marissa.

Monday, November 23, 2015

Influenster POND'S Original Fresh Wet Cleansing Towelettes Review

I received a sample of this product for free from Influenster. I took these out for a test run the night before Halloween and used them to remove zombie blood from my face after street teaming with my roller derby team. It was a light night for FX, and I was able to remove all visible traces of the blood with meticulous use of one cloth, which was impressive, but I still felt like I had to wash my face afterwards. When I used them the next day for regular makeup, it was much easier. Would not substitute these for actually washing my faces, but I'd use them while travelling or in a pinch. As far as using them for FX makeup, I'll just stick to baby wipes.

Single towelette, full of a minimal amount of zombie goo.

Sunday, October 11, 2015

Thanks for That, West Philly

I had a snarky two-liner FB post ready to go about how West Philly never lets me down. Then I had another 40 minutes to think about it on the drive home, and I remembered: the kyriarchy hurts everyone. And that sucks.

As I was heading out of Center City tonite, I saw the traffic up on 76 right before I hit the on ramp, so I hustled around 30th Street Station and headed out via Market/Walnut. Since I was already going to be passing it, I decided to stop for Crown Fried Chicken at 40th Street. So I parked, and then, for the first time in a long time, a homeless guy hit me up for change on the corner, and then followed me in to the store. And I made the decision that buying him fried chicken was probably an easier way to get him off my back than ignoring him while he continued to pester me. Especially since he was now in the actual store with me, and lord knows the CFC guys have their homeless interactions set to Ignore all the time.

So I bought him dinner and figured that was it. Only in his profuse thanks, he ended up cornering me outside the shop as well, and I honestly don't know if he was hitting me up for more money for a Septa token (probably yes) or just trying to talk to someone (probably also yes.) Because at this point, I had my City Girl Hankles up, and my general social anxiety kicking in, so making small talk with a homeless vet who was definitely not 100% there had me in full on Flight mode.

And so I was going to sarcastically thank you, West Philly, because of course you do this. But on the other hand, how much of this was me? In retrospect, the guy presented minimal danger to me. I'm just trained to Ignore All Strangers when I'm out. I bought him a meal, which cost me all of $4, which I definitely have to spare, and he most likely did not. And I could listen to him tell his story (VA hospitals dicking him around, which, whether or not that's true, is absolutely plausible), though, it's not like I'm actually at liberty to change that particular system any time soon.

Instead, I politely (maybe?) frantically (yes.) pretended to listen and shifted my weight a lot, and gave him my fake name and shook his hand more than once, and every time he said "Semper Fi," I glanced in all directions past him, maybe hoping that a magic warp portal would appear and I could disappear my way out of there. Was he off-kilter, or genuinely just excited to talk to a person who had done something kind for him? Was I legitimately in some sort of danger, or just gobsmacked by the awkwardness of forced small talk? Would this all be better (or just different?) if I didn't have to think that d-d-d-d-danger's out to find you, or if the fucking VA system didn't shit all over its patients on the regular?

TL;DR, I bought dinner for a homeless vet and felt really uncomfortable about it, and then spent the next hour thinking about the systems in place that bought us both to that specific situation and have nothing to show for it but this blog post.

Thursday, June 18, 2015

L'Oreal Ultimate Straight Influenster Vox Box Review

I received a set of L'Oreal's new Ultimate Straight hair care supplies to experiment with as a free trial from Influenster. I was pretty excited, as my supplies showed up just as I was about to run out of my regular shampoo, so, hooray, no trip to CVS for me!

I received the full set of the new 4-step line:
Step 1: Smooth Intense Ultimate Straight – Straightening shampooStep 2: Smooth Intense Ultimate Straight – Straight Boosting Pre-conditionerStep 3: Smooth Intense Ultimate Straight – Straightening conditionerStep 4: Smooth Intense Ultimate Straight – Straight Perfecting Balm

I also received the headache of secret steps 5 and 6, blow drying and straightening.

The thing I was the most excited by about this line is that it's paraben free. It's getting easier to hunt down paraben free supplies from the drug store, but it's still not exactly easy. Having a box of them delivered to my front door was pretty swell.

The thing I was LEAST excited about was a 4-step system. I'm pretty low maintenance, and on the best of days, I can manage to shampoo and condition my hair before passing out with my wet hair scrunched up on top of a towel. If I'm REALLY lucky, I'll dry and slap some argan oil on there to keep the frizzies down.

It turns out that the 4 step system isn't so bad. There's one extra step in the shower, the pre-conditioner.It doesn't need to be rinsed out, so it really only adds a minute or two to your usual routine, which is nice. The perfecting balm is used after you towel dry your hair, which is exactly how I use my argan oil, so no real time difference there, either.

What isn't clear about this system is that purported results come as a result of not only use of the 4 products, but also of blow drying your hair, as well as straightening it, if needed, after you blow dry it. These are steps that I almost NEVER take, and was not excited to find out needed to be a part of the Ultimate Straight regiment. (Though, I understand how stick straight hair works, so I can't say I was surprised.)

I tried this system 3 times, once using the whole system less the secret steps, once only using steps 1 and 3, and once using the whole system with the secret steps. My thoughts:

No Secret Steps:
Hair is definitely softer, thought not necessarily straighter. The routine isn't so arduous that I wouldn't keep doing it, though I'm not sure if the results are any better than what I usually do with my three step routine.

1 & 3:
Hair is still pretty soft, but definitely not straighter. If anything, I have MORE flyaways than usual - possibly a result of not using a post-shower moisturizer? Using steps 1 & 3 as an independent straightening system is probably useless, but I might use them in conjunction with my argan oil. Will have to try this.

Secret Steps:
I feel like if you have to use styling tools to achieve perfect, optimum results, the products aren't really delivering 100% on their promises. Of COURSE your hair will be straight if you straighten it with a blowdryer and an iron. You don't really need a straightening product regiment for that. But I was resolve to try this, so I did. Result? The same, if not marginally worse, than my usual hair straightening routine. My hair is still super soft, which is great, but I have plenty of rogue frizzies, and it still doesn't lie as flat as I'd like it to

Takeaway:

As a simple hair care regimen, this seems fine, though it leaves my hair feeling pretty light, which I'm sure contributes to my frizzy/flyaway look. I'm a natural brunette who is actively going grey, so I need a lot more weight to keep the greys down than what this system seems able to offer me. That said, I'm ok with keeping up with the 4 step system til I run out of product, but I'm not sure if I'd purchase steps 2 & 4 independently. I'm not convinced that step 2 actually does anything, but I would purchase it again, if I can get a good deal on it. Step 4 I will probably just trade out for my usual argan oil, which seems to be more moisturizing for my hair. I don't think I'd endorse it as a revolutionary new straightening regiment, but it is adequate.

#Ultimatestraight was provided for me for free as part of a 2015 Influenster VoxBox. Thanks for the products, Influenster!


Tuesday, July 29, 2014

How To Clean Your Roller Derby Pads

People keep asking me how I clean my pads, so I figure I'd just write it up for good. Everyone has their own way of cleaning their gear. You should use whatever way you like best - this is just mine.

I skate with a rec league, so at best, I'll have two "real" practices a week, plus whatever skate time I can fit in on my own. I don't take very good care of my gear - I don't spray it down after practice, I don't really even ever take it out of my bag. I only wash it when it gets to gag-worthy level, which is usually every 4 months, or as soon as it hits 90 degrees in Denver, whichever happens first.

So. How I to wash your gear. (And by gear, I mean wrist guards, elbow pads, and knee pads. Obviously, DO NOT drop your bearings in the washing machine!)

Step 1: Wait until your gear becomes ungodly stinky. Dead skunk on a July day in the sun with flies stinky. (Or whenever you feel like cleaning it. In fact, you should probably NOT wait as long as I do.)

Step 2: Remove gear from your bag. Try not to gag.

Step 3: Put white vinegar in a clean spray bottle. Lay gear out, and spritz down. When I say "spritz," I mean "go to town." Undo the velcro bits and get every last bit of surface. If any of the guard-y bits are removable, feel free to remove them, but I never have on mine. Make sure it soaks in and gets to the foam, the vinegar will help kill the bacteria that is actually living in there, and causing all the stinkifying. Spray the velcro. The elastic. Inside the little air holes that serve as ventilation straight in to the padding. EVERYWHERE. Do this in a well ventilated area. I do it in my bathtub, with the windows open, at night.

Step 4: Let the vinegar soak in, to the point of evaporating or nearly evaporating. I usually let it hang out overnight.

Step 5: Place gear in lingerie/mesh washing bags. I put the kneepads in one, and the wrist guards/elbow pads in another.

Step 6: Put in washing machine with about a cup of baking soda and detergent. I use Boulder 100% Natural Laundry Detergent, which I picked up at CostCo for like $10. Use however much is equivalent to what you'd use for a (whatever you plug in as the size as your load of laundry) load of laundry. (Win is also supposedly good at getting rid of odors, but I've never used it.) Boulder has a very mild citrus scent. I'd recommend using something similar, or unscented, to avoid irritating your skin later.

Step 7: This depends on your washing machine. I set mine for a "large" load and a "delicate/knit" washing cycle. Do whatever approximates a lot of water and delicate swishing. The water temperature should be cold wash and cold rinse. Let the machine fill up, and let the gear soak for a few minutes.

Step 8: WASH YOUR GEAR.

Step 9: Take your gear out and let it line dry in the sun. The UV from the sun also helps kill the bacteria.

Step 10: Clean gear! Sniff test: does it smell tolerable? If so, you're done! If it still smells like vinegar (if it still smells like skunk, it may just be time for new gear), run it through the wash (same steps) and line dry again.

That's it! It may sound like a lot, or time consuming, but I swear that this process has rescued my gear from the point of no return every single time I think I've hit the point of no return. The key, I think, is the one-two punch of bacteria elimination (the vinegar AND the UV), and then swishing out all the dead bacteria. (Obviously, I am not a scientist. That is guesswork.)

Give it a shot and let me know what you think!

Monday, May 26, 2014

Anxiety Nightmares #2

Item: My dad is my best friend.

Item: My dad's health is not, and has not been, for a very long time, the best.

Without getting in to the details of his maladies, suffice it to say, the idea of my dad getting even sicker, or worse, dying, has been an source of anxiety-to-the-point-of-trauma for me for a very, very long time.

It's bad enough that I can make myself physically ill with worry during the day, using nothing but controlled, conscious thought. What's worse is how much worse (better?) my subconscious is at drawing out fantastic, excruciating, unbelievable versions of these same anxiety-fantasies.

 I have had recurring dreams of my father's death/decline for as long as I can remember dreaming. Not the same dream, but the same storyline. (Do other people dream in movies, like I do?) What's truly impressive is the staggering number of storylines my subconscious has come up with to exploit this fear with me.

The one where I lose him in a crowd at a Flyers game at the Spectrum, and the next thing I know, I see his memorial obit picture on the jumbotron.

The one where, in a stunning recreation of an actual event from his childhood, he wanders down the beach and never comes back.

The one where I sit in the hospital with him for days and days and days and the doctors refuse to tell me why we're there.

It goes on. I've forgotten most of them, thank God. I mostly remember just waking up in cold sweats, consciously toeing that line between knowing it's a dream and just needing it all to STOP, and knowing it's a dream and being so horrified by the nightmare scenario playing out that I want to see it all the way through to the end.

And so, today's. I took a nap after I came home from Kentucky, and got served what may have been my most vivid version of this shitshow to date, and a uniquely nauseating one, to boot.

This wasn't a dream about my dad's death, for a change. The thought and fear of that was a bright and pulsing undercurrent for the dream, to be sure, but not the literal content.

We're driving home in a car that is mine, but is not my Element, though it is suggestive of it. We are driving from a vague but familiar point west - Genaurdi's, perhaps. The doctor's office. We are initially driving past Not-Radnor-High (you know how dreamscape geography is), under the 476 underpass at Lancaster & KoP, when the underpass area becomes more urban (a larger underpass area, more lanes, more concrete, more confusion) and more forest (more leaves on the ground, low-forest shrubs in the same concrete-y area) than before. The area merges to a combination of the underpass intersection of Sproul and Conestoga, but with the trailheads of Enke Park/Radnor Chester Road transposed on the SW side of Sproul.

This locations are important, because they're such a familiar, background part of my daily drives back home. That section of Sproul, particularly, is one of my favourite bits of road to drive on. The scenery and landscape are familiar, homey. So it makes what happens next all the more distressing.

The roads become this morph of roads, and they become difficult to navigate. The car is physically having a difficult time travelling over them. The traffic is getting more condensed - not heavier, just as if the roads are merging - and though I don't see it, it feels as if we're fording a river. I'm becoming claustrophic.

I feel the car pass over what might be a speed bump, as we're passed on the left by a large, white, fast moving vehicle. This is insufficient. It's a vehicle that seems to be part DeathRace 2000 racecar, part boat. The part that is exposed to me, on the driver's side left, is the right side of the vehicle, which is essential the white, oversized ridged bilge of a crappy speedboat, if that speedboat bilge had been stretched with the bow and stern on the horizontal, and the bilge pulled vertically along the gunwales, almost to form a sail (maybe a shield) that obscures the rest of the craft from me as it passes by, though I see enough of it to know that it is attached by a simple joint, like an umbrella, or what is used to hold up deck awnings.

It passes us, and between the reflections (or what, I'm not sure, just that they're glaringly bright) and the water it splashes, I am blinded and run off road.

We are in a patch of the underpass underbelly, stuck in some sort of mud-quicksand-grass-island-median. Dreamscape, all things at once. We're being passed by men and women on foot, in costume. Dad gets out of the car, and wanders in to a storefront, one of many that has appeared, and look like they have come out of a set, or Main Street Disneyland. They look faux, false.

I realize that the men and women in costume are part of one of those doofy themed 5ks, and the Disney set we appear to be on is, in fact, a set that has been built on top of these familiar roads. The bilge vehicle DID offroad us over breakers, and we ARE in the middle of the course. And this course IS partially submerged in water, the racers DO have to ford it (there are large black whitewater rafts, though it is unclear how racers are chosen for them. Teams? Fighting?), and run it, and obstacle course it.

The car is stuck, and there is no way back to where we started. The terrain is unpassable in that direction, and we are beginning to be overcome with course runners. I manage to find a race official to explain the situation, but Dad has wandered in to a storefront, something that appears to be a cross between a tailor's shop and a western saloon. He stands on a slightly elevated square of a pedestal, as you do in a dressing room, while women both measure and coo over him. This added measure of sexuality makes me intensely uncomfortable as a watch them drape themselves over him.

The staffer I talk to is at first perplexed - she doesn't understand that we're not part of the race, that we don't want to be a part of the race, that I just need to get my car off of the "lot" and go home. Eventually, she leads me behind the "scenes" - it is exactly like a false front on a set, or a prop front on a stage, and, from the back of a "barn" front, she throws open the double doors and says that I can drive out that way. Even with my narrow Element, the frame is not quite wide enough for me to fit my car through, I tell her. She gets upset, and re-explains that this is how I should leave. We go through this for a while, til she eventually sighs, exasperated, and pushes a wall to the side, like a pocket door.

I go to retrieve my father, and he doesn't want to go. He doesn't protest, doesn't say he isn't ready - and that's the most frightening part. He is acting like someone wholly unlike the person I know. This is the part I find hardest to describe, because none of the actions he is taking or words he is saying are inappropriate or lewd or unbecoming. There is simply this aura of his behavior, his body language, his words and tone, that is distinctly off and frighteningly wrong. His physical form has shifted. He is not the man who is currently my father, but somehow a dream-ish version of him when I was younger, one that I have cobbled together from pictures, but not actually rooted in memory. Not problem-free, but healthier than he has been in a long time. Brunette, not grey. And I am surrounded by people who cannot see this, who do not understand why these behavior changes, along with the physical retrogression, distress me so much.

I become increasingly desperate to collect my father, to leave this situation, but in between spurts of me not being able to find him, being overcome by runners in (superhero) costumes, by the spray from the obstacles, I can't. And no one will help me.

"You're being a stick in the mud," they tell me. "He's just discovering himself. Maybe this is his true self. Maybe this is how it's meant to be."

But that is not my perception. The actions and interactions I see my father performing are so wrong (on him) that they are shaking me to my core. I am on the edge of hysteria, as the people around me ignore the years of relationship that my father and I have built, telling me that his current actions are the way he really is, should be, wants to be. And that way is rude, childish, fedorable. He stands in front of a fountain like the one in Triangle Park, Lexington (onyx stairs), with his brown hair and enormous tortoiseshell glasses, and looks at me. Looks past me. Like he's not interested, or like I'm only something he imagined, once.

I can only try to explain my terror, in that moment, of someone who is being told that their loved one's cancer, or mental health, or broken limbs, are "natural," and the treatment options that are usual for them are hurting them, that they should be free to be their "true" self. That their suffering/pain/distress is actually pleasant, a release. Or like when a child goes missing, and someone suggests to her friends and family that the reason they ran was a reason so far from the realm of known possibilities that it is actually offensive. (This did, in fact, happen to me several weeks ago. Maybe some of that is bleeding through, here.)

Maybe I'm seeing a version of my father that never was - of a person he wasn't able to be, because of his illnesses holding him back. But in the moment, all I can see is my dad, my best friend, who is acting like he hardly knows me, like he doesn't care, and like he has no responsibility to get back in the car, and back towards the time-sensitive treatments that allow him to continue being my best friend.

I go from person to person, trying to get them to help me bring my dad back to me. Every one of them chides me, asking how dare I pretend to know what is best for him, how I can deny him his true self. "Look how happy he is," they say!

All I can see (feel) is how close we are to that timeclock running out on when he last took his insulin, what he looks like when he goes in to shock, what will happen when medicine can't keep him patched up and running. hHow powerless I feel when bad things happen to him and I can't help him. I can't do anything. Nothing I do or want or say can save him. He stands by that fountain and grins.

I wake up, per usual, drenched in cold sweat and tears.