friedrich nietzsche, pink aliens and the village people.

The other night it was one degree outside, and I ran outside in my underwear desperately looking for a glove. It occurred to me: one degree isn't even that bad. Sure I was cold, but I could have gotten used to it. Maybe I would have died. Why is that so bad? The ground was warmly cold against me. And how else can you truly feel warm? It was another beckoning.

The past four days are three in my mind. The holiday was fun; I received no presents and went to bed at 1 PM. I spent much time alone at the computer editing Wikipedia articles. Specifically this one. My father and I were both too consumed in our own miasmas to converse much. Except when I whined that I almost slipped in a blotch of greasy yellow on the kitchen floor that smelled strongly of chicken guts. My father's present was a website. But I would have gotten it for him, holiday or not; it's just a label of convenience. Maybe two weeks ago, Valerie asked me what I wanted for a gift, and I said, "I don't know. I like cheap toys. Or anything that produces a sound." As a result, she gave me this weird toy she found at Pizza Hut, where she works as a delivery girl. It's a little pink plastic alien with three legs, and when you push the button on its belly, it sounds like a little African American girl is laughing. This was my favorite gift out of the three I've received this year, all of which were from her. (I really am not complaining; I'm more emphasizing the point that I don't need presents to have a Christmas. I just need my friends, which I need outside any holiday anyway. And rituals are a fun bonus. Having a coniferous tree in your living room is so fun and funny.) I kept telling her the pink alien was the perfect gift for me, and the other people at her party looked at me like I was crazy. This little toy is worth so much more to me than the burden of a videogame console or iPod. There's something about the simplest pleasures of this reality that can never be replaced with a new reality. (I'm also kinda babyish and like stupid things.)

I love the Village People. They tricked the masses across America to stretch and groove to songs about gay men meeting for sex. "It's fun to stay at the YMCA. / They have everything for you men to enjoy, / You can hang out with all the boys." Everything, you say? One review says the song "gave the Village People a number two hit, and from late 1978 into the next year, that song was seemingly everywhere as it rampaged off the dancefloor and into Middle America's living rooms." Even the most conservative old folks in rural Tennessee were learning to shape those infamous gay letters with their limbs, like a big "Macarena" queerfest. And "In the Navy"—way hot—they almost got me to join, with lines like "where can you find pleasure" and "they're signing up new seamen fast." Towards the end of the song, he ad-libs/shouts out, "Hey, what am I gonna do with a submarine?" The ultimate homophobic closeted guy was probably begging to find out. But what really astonishes me is how albums like Macho Man were successful in America thirty years ago despite songs with titles like "Sodom and Gomorrah." They were true activists, effective artists.

I just read Canadian lesbian singer Jane Siberry changed her name to “Issa” and is letting her fans/audience choose their own price on her music. Reflecting, in terms of my own life and taking action, I can’t decide if I should be a complete powerwhore or submit myself completely to social causes. I need to work this out issue by issue, I think, but it seems like one way or the other would make the most logic. I guess the first and foremost thought is that I would prefer direct exchanges: trades, barters, etc. Do I want to live every man’s reality or do I want to create an idealistic situation? Again, both, in a way. I can be flexible amid the realities of capitalism, fundamentalism or mass media culture, but still I can have a preference. There's a little socialist/Mennonite man on my shoulder saying I shouldn’t take more than my share. And then there's Friedrich Nietzsche on my other shoulder saying I should use my power as much as possible, or else I’m a Social Darwinist waste. I guess the balance between the two is to only take more if I’m giving it back directly. I should react to anything and everything exactly the way I think I should, and not be afraid of the consequences. And it doesn't mean I don't care about people. I see myself in every living thing—and really, everything is a living thing—so how do I help them get from point A to point B? I read about a saint once (in a Sister Wendy book I checked out of the Albuquerque library about patron saints) who said the best way to help others is to get them to help themselves. Specifically the ones who will make everyone around them wake up. I think of how much effort I've put into motivating certain friends of mine with this reason in mind. And then there's a Nihilist presence looming beneath my shoulders telling me it doesn’t mean much whatever I do. I’m just playing a character here. So at least I better play it well.