Living Paycheck To Credit Card

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those only of the author and may only coincidentally reflect those of Mystic Metals, its employees, or associates. All responses should be posted as comments here, or mailed directly to the author, A. Robert Basile, at ihatebasile@gmail.com.

Mail sent directly to Mystic Metals will not be read.

Living Paycheck To Credit Card

2.29.12

Stressful week, kids. I suppose those happen once in a while. You have a one in fifty two chance that your week is going to suck the festering blood from the rotting corpse of life. For those keeping score at home, that about a 2% chance. Which, when you put it in those terms, isn’t so bad. They happen. And when they do, I suppose we have to put our helmets on (or keep them on if you’re one of those kids) and trudge through it. The light at the end of the shitty week tunnel is that baseball starts soon. And then everything will be peachy keen jelly bean. Also, it’s Leap Day. That’s kind of cool. Double also, Davy Jones died today.

Every once in a while, and far too often I think, I write about the workforce and modification. It comes up frequently and tends to be an issue that is still without solution for those of us who participate in the culture. On the whole, I look at it this way: We chose to be modified. We didn’t wake up one day with two inch lobes and sleeves. We weren’t born with split tongues or scarification designs or sub-dermal implants. We bought them, and hopefully we made solid and smart decisions when we did. This is the chief element of my jobs and mod discussion. With that said, I do believe that most qualified modified people can achieve success in an occupation of his choosing. Modified people, on the whole, are no different than unmodified people, therefore we can likely do most jobs for which we’re qualified that unmodified folks can. Still, if any of you Mystic Mobsters (which is what I call fans of Mystic Metals Body Jewelry, my generous sponsor) think you’ll be an investment banker or state supreme judge with three inch lobes, a four gauge labret, a zero gauge septum, and pointed ears you’re probably a bit naive about what society at large accepts as aesthetic. We’re a little ways off from that, I think.

So we have to be smart about it. Especially women. The scrutiny of lady types is much more intense, I think, than that of man types. But this rant isn’t about that. Not entirely. No, this rant is about how, for the first time in a long while, I am in the position of trying to figure out what job I can do with this face. And as you know, I have another layer that I can’t do anything about. Let’s talk about it.

First off, if any of the guys in my band are reading this (which I think only Q reads these, and I appreciate that from him), no I’m not quitting the band. You kids know that I play bass in an above average cover band in the Philadelphia area. I think I’m good at it; I’m a solid bass player, an interesting stage performer, an affable team member, and can talk to strangers easily. I also don’t drink, so when my band members get embarrassingly drunk (which happens too frequently, in my humble opinion), I can get the truck loaded and drive home. I don’t hate my job, I hate all of the horseshit that accompanies it. Like any job, I suppose. Except ballpark greenskeeper. That job is probably perfect. But I’m broke. Because of money mismanagement and an agency that doesn’t seem to want to pay us, I am owed quite a bit of money for work I’ve already done. Sparing you kids the boring details, I’m broke and working my ass off. I need to supplement my income, since writing nets me zero dollars. (Please buy my Nook and Kindle books.)

So it’s time for me to reenter the normal people workforce. The jobs I had before the band were telemarketer and porn store clerk, so my mods weren’t much of a problem. Except from my boss Bill at the porn store who broke my balls about it incessantly. Little did he know, we mocked his horrendous eczema so bad that we started calling him eBill-a. Eat that, you leper prick. And no, Bill; not all British comedies are funny. Stop making me watch them all day. OK, enough about the leper porn king Bill. I need a job. We all know that the job market is shit right now. The way the president is running this country into the overly protected ground, it makes me wish for a second coming of Jimmy Carter. I can’t believe I just said that. Where are we now? 8%? 9%? Some states at 12%.

This isn’t political commentary, though if more companies had more lax modification standards, some of us in the mod community could be put to work and contribute to deficit reduction. But that’s a different rant. This rant is a boring one about how I need a job. Let’s get back to that.

The mod thing isn’t a huge problem for me. Most of my mods can be removed for working hours. I’m not scarred or implanted. My lobes will look pretty gross, but that’s not really my problem, is it. Also, I’m a pretty good charmer, so I may be able to use the force to let my boss let me keep them in. (And yes, nerds; I know force should be capitalized.) My bigger problem is my disability. Took me nine hundred words to get to the point; I probably should avoid jobs in writing.

Yeah, I know there are laws that protect the hiring of people who are crippled like me. But let’s invoke the words of Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes for a second: “Be for real.” There is a certain realism in the thinking of a disabled person trying to find a job. At least there ought to be. There are things I can’t do and applying to those jobs is dumb. Also, the competition I face is slightly greater. If I apply to the Apple store, for instance, and am equally qualified as an able person who requires less attention to special needs, I’d expect that job to go to the able person. Yeah, I know; Shut up, Andy and go find a job; it’s hard for everyone.

What would make my life easier is to have a wheelchair for work. The main symptom of my disability is pain. And standing for an extended period of time causes pain. A lot of it. A vomit causing, migraine making, doubled over for two days kind of pain. If I had a chair, I could do work more easily. I know, mom; you don’t want to hear that. I know that you (mom) have an aversion to my accepting a chair, and frankly, so do I. But if it increases my quality of life, and more importantly my probability to make money, then I think it’s a good idea. This is where all that back pay from my band comes in. If I had all of that right now, it would go into buying a chair (which are deceptively expensive) and making my life a little more tolerable. (That’s why I mentioned that band money shit earlier. Foreshadowing is a shadow that comes before.) If the guys in my band are reading this, which they’re probably not, I hope they can see why I’ve been a cunt about that back pay recently.

What am I talking about in this subpar, not at all entertaining blog? Well, we all have this concept of doing what you have to do to survive or better yet, succeed. We’re all trying to succeed, and if you’re an individual who would rather live paycheck to credit card, sitting on your couch covered in cheese doodle dust and bitching that the system is fuct up and doesn’t serve you specifically, then we’re not going to see eye to eye. I believe in hard work and no handouts. Or at least, very few handouts. (And if you think I am cashing disability checks, ask the state of New Jersey why I’ve been rejected three times.) I am a huge supporter of knowing yourself, loving yourself, being yourself, embracing your beauty, and sharing with others the positive personification of that. That is why I love modification so much, but in a situation where I have to choose which prescriptions to fill in a given month because the money isn’t there, then perhaps the mods have to take a break until I get back onto my feet. It upsets me to say that, trust me, but we all have to put ourselves in the best position to succeed, right? Now that I think of it, I bet my beard is a bigger problem than my lobes. That thing is scary and I think it has a mind of its own. A fly got stuck in it and couldn’t get out the other day! True story. But what do I do about my disability? I can’t really leave that at home in a jewelry box and put it back on when I get home from work. If I could do that, I’d drive up to the Meadowlands and bury it in one of those landfills where the mafia hides bodies. They know all the best hiding places. OK, I’ve completely lost control of this blog. I’m going to go home now. Don’t worry; next week’s blog will be much better. Stay beautiful, kids. 

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A Place For A Crippled Freakshow

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those only of the author and may only coincidentally reflect those of Mystic Metals, its employees, or associates. All responses should be posted as comments here, or mailed directly to the author, A. Robert Basile, at ihatebasile@gmail.com.

Mail sent directly to Mystic Metals will not be read.

A Place For A Crippled Freakshow

2.22.12

Everyone at the bookstore is kind of a dick today. (Not the staff, of course; they’re always great.) I guess that’s what I get for leaving my house at eleven o’clock. Which I never do. Because mornings suck. Real badly. But I have a lot of projects I’m working on right now, and I needed the time to write. Like the blog (this is number 340), I’m writing a fairy tale, and a bass playing memoir about my experiences of being in bands. I’m also trying to find an agent to publish the three other novels I have finished, and trying to figure out how to market and sell the book I have available on the Nook and Kindle. Working at night blows because it makes working in the morning blow more. If you have a Nook, though, buy my short story book (http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/people-i-know-a-robert-basile/1108161234), and if you have a Kindle, get you can get it too (http://www.amazon.com/people-i-know-ebook/dp/B006VECZTI/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1329930840&sr=8-2).

A Facebook friend of mine had a birthday recently. I have never met this woman, but I believe that we can call each other friends. She’s one of the Rogers sisters who are blog fans of mine. I appreciate their readership. She is beautiful and interesting and unique. What came to my mind this week when I dropped the Facebook happy birthday was that many of my readers have become my internet friends. And even though I hate people and those stupid photos with the captions added to them and music videos by bands that are just absolutely lousy and photos of pregnant bellies and bemoaning posts about being single and misinformed political posts about single issue politics, I do maintain somewhat of a relationship with those collected in my Facebook and Twitter lists of friends. I am not terribly old (my birthday is next month, so send gifts), but sometimes things like Facebook and the relationships I’ve forged through it point to my age.

Before I was modified, I never thought that I would be a part of a community in which all of its members shared a common battle cry and interest. Before I was modified, I had dial up internet, no cell phone, no cable TV, and only the friends that I could hug and handshake in person. Then I was modified and everything changed. That’s not to say that the internet and Facebook were waiting for my labret to happen, but in my narcissism, I’d like to believe that is true. I was a new bass player then, and I got a labret because I liked the way it looked. Now I have hundreds of Facebook friends and thousands of reads a month on my blog. How the hell did that happen to an individual who would be much more content living in the woods eating ramen and drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, writing on a typewriter without a cell phone or internet and looking at trees for a couple hours a day. That’s me, by the way. And yes, Nanci, I’d take you with me. You’re pretty.

But that’s not the case, and I equal parts hate and love it. I hate it because I hate people as a rule (oh of course not you, reader who thinks I’m only talking about him). But I love it because we have a community. A support group of related interests made into a likeminded think tank sort of thing where we can vent frustrations that we all understand, express joys that may not read to those outside the community, or just share ideas that to others may seem a bit loony. Example. I recently got earweights to help stretch, and beforehand I asked of my modified friends (on the internet) their opinions. The response was supportive and informative. I made the same mention to my unmodified friends, and I had to explain what an earweight is.

What am I talking about, exactly. I’m not sure, and that makes me a shitty writer, I suppose. If anyone has a thesis lying around, forward it to me; I could use it. But thanks to my cousin Dave and his website (www.mysticmetalsbodyjewelry.com), I have been given the license to make these friends. And I’m glad for it. I owe him for giving me a place to be welcomed and familiar. You cats and kittens who read me frequently know that I have a disability from birth, so ‘fitting in,’ though I’m not a huge proponent of the importance of ‘fitting in,’ has been a challenge. Through modification I have found that hole for my peg. All unintentional sexual innuendo aside, that has been a mind saving godsend for me, and I believe that my speculating that finding a community for you has had the same effect.

Now, I’m not saying that any likeminded group of individuals ought to isolate into halls and rooms populated only with similar individuals. It is very important, if not vital, to the understanding of society as a whole to experiment in other groups; to see what others unlike you are doing, why they do it, what motivates them to do it, and what they get out of doing it. After all, we in the modified community expect that polite questioning respect from the unmodified, so oughtn’t we have a point of view similar to what we expect of those outside the community? It’s only fair and just, and it applies to any number of ideologies to which we subscribe. As a liberal, talk to a conservative. As a white, talk to a black. As a gay, talk to a straight. Educated and first hand opinions are more valuable than ignorant ones, aren’t they.

Often, though, with modification it is difficult to explain to others our own motivation in participating. What makes our culture and society unique is that we choose to be a part of it. I didn’t choose to be part of the Italian-American community, but I did choose to be a part of the mod community. That option, that ability to choose to subscribe is often a hurdle for those unfamiliar with mod. And since it is a choice, we probably oughtn’t approach their ignorance (in the literal sense of the word) with offense or malice. Of course there are those who intentionally say things to hurt us, like any group. There are those wordless stares too. Those get old very quickly, yet there’s a new one everyday. But in fairness to our community as a representative of the beauty that we exude through modification, a smile and polite hello speaks volumes to our attitude and maturity.

Some days that is more difficult than others, isn’t it, kids? That’s why we have our safety net, our community to which we may retreat for a time and realize that there are others who are stareless, judgeless, and open to the unique beauty we personify. I’m glad for our Mystic Metals community, the Mystic Mob I call it, in that I can go onto our Facebook page or onto my Twitter and I can say, “Hey, Jennete is on, and though I’ve never met her, I’m going to talk to her because we already have something in common. Our ice has already been broken.” It feels good. And some day, when I’m a famous writer (hold on a sec while I stop laughing at that), I’ll travel the country and hang out with all of the Mystic Mobsters. Don’t hold your breath on that; I’m broke as shit.

It’s strange. Because over ten years ago I decided to get a labret in my lip, I now play Xbox with a girl named Becks, I look at modeling photos from a girl named Emmy, I hear about Afghanistan from a soldier named Matt, I learn French from a girl named Marjorie, I send and receive birthday wishes from countless freaks across the country. From some stupid labret. And the residual effect of all of that is that I feel welcomed and loved and comfortable in a place that doesn’t care about how big my lobes are, doesn’t care about my septum ring, doesn’t care about my tattooed hand, and especially doesn’t care about my handicap. You cats and kittens have given a crippled freak a place to go when the legs get bad, the lobes get bigger, and the understanding seems slight. Thanks, kids. You do much more for me than I do for you. Let’s all virtual group hug. Aww. That was nice. I should say something metal so that people don’t think I’m a sissy. I’ll just throw on a SLAYER (always spelled in caps, of course) record and sway back and forth at the bookstore like a loon. There we go. I’m tough again. Grr. Stay beautiful, kids. 

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The Women In Mod Article Has No Luster

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those only of the author and may only coincidentally reflect those of Mystic Metals, its employees, or associates. All responses should be posted as comments here, or mailed directly to the author, A. Robert Basile, at ihatebasile@gmail.com.

Mail sent directly to Mystic Metals will not be read.

The Women In Mod Article Has No Luster

2.15.12

Looking for something to write about today, I came across some responses to that Lisa Khoury article that we addressed a couple of weeks ago. I’m not going to address it any much more, but I have to say; you guys made mine the best article out there. Thanks, kids. It means a lot to me. Also, yesterday my beautiful lover Nanci and I went to the zoo, and I saw gorillas and it was awesome. Also, a baby orangutan tried to hug my girlfriend. If you’ve never seen a baby orangutan, image search it. Smile guaranteed.

So in searching for something to write about today, I came across yet another article about women and tattoos. I love women, I love tattoos; but I’m getting kind of irritated writing about this so much. What is going on with people just realizing that women are modified? Or does it just seem that way? Probably the latter. Let’s talk about it a little bit.

The article I read today was not really a commentary. It was more of a local news fluff thing about ‘hey, have you heard that women are getting tattooed? Really! Women!’ Which is what you ought to expect from local news, I suppose. Cat in a tree, top story at eleven kind of bullshit. But the tones of articles like this present a certain attitude that seems a little absurd to me. Most of these women in mod articles (most, not all; right Lisa Khoury?) have this ‘this is just great that these women people have decided to participate in this activity and we should all clap vigorously as if it were a kindergarden Sunday school passion play performance.’ Isn’t this a little insulting to women who modify?

Historically, yes; women have not been the ones who have partaken in the culture. Save, of course, the carnie attraction tattooed and bearded lady. Now, ladies growing beards as an increasing trend is news, but this isn’t about beards (though beards are awesome. See also; me). But if the awe and wonder of women modifying is leaning on history and the past for its credibility, then ought we also write these types of articles about women playing sports and getting CEO jobs and being lesbian and choosing not to marry and have kids? These activities (and being lesbian isn’t an activity, I know; save the hate mail) were just as unlikely in the era that women with modifications was unlikely. The past, and it is a growingly distant past, dictated that tattoo modification was reserved for sailors and bikers and carnies and the aboriginal tribes of wherever. If that is the same past we are going to reference for our outrageous attraction to the modern woman modifying, then I oughtn’t be modified. You probably oughtn’t be modified either. Those mod butchers with tattoo reality shows don’t fall into that category either. Not actors nor musicians nor business owners nor warriors nor athletes. So shouldn’t we be reading articles about all these types indulging in modification as well? Breaking news: Writer and bass player from New Jersey stretches lobes and tattoos arms. Story at 10:30. But that’s not news, is it. And that’s because men have embraced the art on a steeper rate than women have. And I get that, but shouldn’t we be in a mental position of ‘who gives a shit?’

Women in the man’s world. Blah, blah, fleergle, flingle. I’m not in that boat, don’t get me wrong. And yes, I’m not a women so I don’t know how it is and all of that happy horseshit. I know what I see, however. And I see women’s roles in society changing. It’s a fine thing. Women can do anything a man can; isn’t that the message? I believe that for the most part. I mean, I don’t think a woman can beat Lou Ferigno in a fist fight, but who can? I’m looking at you, Chuck Norris. And they do. I mean women do man things, not beat up Lou. And yes, I understand that the struggle of women in society has been a long and hard fought battle. I’d never discredit that. Trust me. Or else I’ll have to hear my hippie mother go on about marches and signs and ‘bringing the boys home’ with sit-ins and other crap that I in no way support as policy changing behavior. (I love you, mom.) But women breaching the tattoo barrier isn’t news to me. Women fighting closer to the front lines at war is news to me. (And that’s happening now; look it up, look it uppers.) That’s a much more social timber changing event than ‘women mod more.’ A woman president, news. A women with a chest piece, not news. A woman pro baseball player, news. A woman with a six gauge septum, not news.

We have an interesting protective attitude toward our women in this culture. And we probably ought. We should always be a little more protective of the women. They make the people, after all. Genocide lesson number 72: You want to destroy a society, kill the women so they can’t make more people. But we also protect them from things from which they need no protection. Like modification. After all, aren’t women the ones who paint their faces and wear the fancy clothes and paint the fingernails and pay much more attention to their aesthetic comfort than men? I’ve seen very few cats with foundation on their faces and fingernail paint. So wouldn’t it serve logic to say that women participating in the aesthetic beauty and comfort that modification brings should be more logical than a man getting modded?

I’m a pretty even guy. Black and white thinker, right and wrong, crime and punishment. I am a fan of allowing a someone to do a something without criticism. Then, if he fails, criticize. If he succeeds, praise. This goes for any person type. White, black; man, women; gay, straight. Let him do what he wants and screw the sociological backlash. That backlash will inevitably become frontlash (what?) over time. That’s how things change. Take a modified woman and send her back to 1954 and see the reaction. Take the same woman and send her to 2537 and see the reaction. Let people of different flavors do what they want to do and let them deal with the assholes of society who are tethered to rules that only still apply in the minds of people and not actually in the timber of the culture and society.

Should we be excited that women are more participatory in the culture of modification? Absolutely. But c’mon; let’s stop treating it as if it’s a ‘yay, you did it! Good for you! Yay!’ kind of thing. That’s how a lot of these articles read, and that’s what chafes my ass more than anything. I’m not a trophy for everyone kind of guy. I’m the kind of cat that says praise for success, tutor for failure, normalize for comfort. I don’t care much what shape or flavor you are, what your crotch looks like or what gets your sex juices flowing. You want to do something? You want to try something? Do it. Try it. I’m just not sure that the Icee-Pop after the Little League game win or lose response is all that appropriate. You’re a broad with three hundred hours of work? Awesome. I’d like to meet you and hang out with you. But let’s keep the ‘isn’t that strange and awkwardly wonderful’ golf clap for the two year old who took his first step. Is that when they start to walk? Two? I have no idea. Let’s keep the legitimate pride in our culture for the adults. I love modified women. I love unmodified women. I also love modified men and unmodified men. (Take that where you will, Dan.) Beauty doesn’t know a gender or a race or a whatever. Beauty knows only humanity, and that’s what we ought to be praising. Stay beautiful, kids.

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Roger Maris’ Least Favorite Glyph

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those only of the author and may only coincidentally reflect those of Mystic Metals, its employees, or associates. All responses should be posted as comments here, or mailed directly to the author, A. Robert Basile, at ihatebasile@gmail.com.

Mail sent directly to Mystic Metals will not be read.

Roger Maris’ Least Favorite Glyph

2.8.12

The bookstore is filled with a bunch of weirdos today. I am one of them, to be sure, but man. I have nursing students behind be talking about reproductive organs very loudly, some dude near the outlet who reacts as if he just woke up whenever I interact with him, a coffee girl (my friend Alana) who is trying to tell me that socialism is a good thing, some baby who keeps saying the same musical nonsense word over and over while his mother tries to figure out what it wants, and then myself who is sitting here listening to Hawkwind and looking up the benefits of having a partnership in a business in Sims 3 Pets. I should have stayed in bed and watched the snow from my window today.

Last week I wrote a blog called “Beauty With An Asterisk.” You cats and kittens seemed to like that one, and I appreciate all of the reads. If you didn’t read that one, shame. “Shame, shame, double shame” to quote the brilliant Stimpy of Ren and Stimpy fame. This rant isn’t a continuation of that, but I did like the title a lot. Asterisk. It’s a good word, and I think the title was very appropriate. Let’s all take a moment to reflect on how awesome I am. I want to talk more about that title today, and hopefully I can get another Red and Stimpy quote in there.

As a baseball fan, the asterisk is about as welcomed in my life as the ebola virus on my boy parts. You all should know why, and if you don’t, “shame, shame…” Damnit, I used that quote already. Anyway, it’s an interesting little nugget of attention. It draws eyes to more information. It draws focus to things additional, or limitations, or special cases. It tells us not to drive like a cocksucker in car commercials. It tells us that the thing we bought to do whatever job might actually not do the job. It tells us that the pills we’re taking may cause some insane side effect like priaprism or decapitation or (and I saw this one) vaginal discharge. It leads to more, and more is often good. It sends us places in the book we’ve not gotten to yet, like the index or the glossary. It further explains. It’s a powerful little thing, isn’t it.

But all of that isn’t terribly interesting. When used in the title of last week’s blog, “Beauty With An Asterisk,” it takes the brain into some different directions. Or at least, it was intended to. But that title jogged my crippled and feeble brain for the past week. Beauty with an asterisk. What is your asterisk? What footnote do you lead other towards when speaking of your own beauty? How heavy is that little mark to you and your beauty? Where does your asterisk send others?

My goal here in A Different Kind Of Beautiful is to talk about beauty. With no asterisks. It is to create looking glasses through which my readers can see things they may not have seen before. It doesn’t always work, I know, and that’s because I am a shitty writer. But I am not naive enough to think that those who have read me for all this time have suddenly accepted themselves in a glorious epiphany. That’s where the asterisks come in.

You are beautiful. And you know that. I know that. Others around you ought to know that as well. But I’m not that stupid; I know you have that thing. That one thing. That little thing that only you can see. You know that thing, that asterisk. That scar you always cover up with a scarf. The way your belly sits on your jeans. The bald spot (which for me is my entire head, but it’s still just a spot, damnit). Maybe it’s your nose or your eyes or some type of handicap you have that seems to be the biggest element of your aesthetic character when in fact it is much more subtle than you think. What is your asterisk. Think of it right now.

So we know we’re beautiful, and then we adorn that beauty word with the little mark that draws attention. When we see a word with an asterisk, how quickly do we gloss over the meaning of the actual word with the mark and search for the explanation to which the mark leads? We get tied up and wrapped up and other euphemisms with the word up in what the further explanation is and suddenly we forget what the word that had the mark actually meant in the context to begin with. That word was beauty. Remember that. None of us were born to the exact design that we would have preferred to be. I know I wasn’t. But in order for the beauty that we all have to be accentuated with the asterisks of what we dislike about ourselves, the beauty has to exist to start. You can’t put an asterisk on a word that isn’t there.

The asterisk can be a good thing in certain circumstances as well. It can motivate us to become healthier. It can get us to hit the gym or eat a salad. Those are good things. The interesting thing about the asterisks is that we put them there on our own. We’re not born with asterisks which means we are in control of them. Maybe your asterisk is that you have a great big scar on your face. You can’t control the scar’s being there, but you can control how much power you give the scar, and in turn, how much power you give to the asterisk that you’ve assigned to your beauty. Who is to say that the scar is beauty giving and not beauty robbing? Only you, really. When you feel beautiful, you exude beauty. In that, others will see the beauty before the asterisk and not the little mark before the beauty. My asterisk leads to a volume. It leads to a huge list of explanations that in themselves are tomes and tomes of information that dwarf the tiny little word to which the asterisk was attached. I have a scar on my spine that came from doctors cutting me open to take some shit out. That’s part of my asterisk. I have a spine that was never formed the way it was supposed to from the start. Asterisk. I have a giant nose, a bald head, bad legs, gnarled knuckles, a fat belly, a brain that doesn’t turn off, a dependency to psychotropic medication, nasty teeth, and a guilt that is crushing me in the way that the bad guy in RoboCop was crushed by the scrap metal after RoboCop stabbed him in the neck with the spike thing in his hand. Which was awesome. Best movie about a robot cop ever. Asterisks. But at the core, there is a beauty. There is an inherent being that cannot be corroded, like your own beauty. A stranger who sees me sees only my beauty until I direct him to where that asterisk leads; and that direction is my choice. Ought I send him to the footnotes, or ought I let him see the beauty of which I am proud?

We have a choice, kids. We can mark everything with an asterisk thereby telling others, ‘go here instead and ignore the important part,’ or we can slowly begin to unmark everything and tell others, ‘this is absolute without notation.’ Your beauty is absolute and deserves no notation. Yes, there are elements of you which you believe deserve notation with the little pointed thing. But your disdain for how you’re built or designed or how you’ve arrived to where you are now cannot deteriorate or demanufacture the beauty with which you’ve started. Yeah, my spine is shit, but I am still beautiful less to spite it, and more because of it. Our asterisks give us some perspective too sometimes, don’t they. Because I am a broken mess of biological material, my sense of beauty has been heightened; I am attuned to beauty because of the elements of myself that I find unbeautiful. Irony is a cruel mistress. If keeping your asterisk helps you see the word to which it is attached, keep it and know of its function to bring attention to the word itself. But if it is a weight which drags you beneath the waters of your dislike, erase it and just have the beauty word by itself and you’ll float above those waters and see the beautiful sky above you. Beauty is strong enough to survive on its own. Believe me. And really, are you going to let a little thing like an asterisk have that much power over you? At least pick something cooler, like the bracket with the point sticking out. That thing is awesome. Stay beautiful, kids. 

*Here is the only Ren And Stimpy quote that came to mind: “This is a song about a whale. NO! This is a song about being happy.”

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Beauty With An Asterisk

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those only of the author and may only coincidentally reflect those of Mystic Metals, its employees, or associates. All responses should be posted as comments here, or mailed directly to the author, A. Robert Basile, at ihatebasile@gmail.com.

Mail sent directly to Mystic Metals will not be read.

Beauty With An Asterisk

2.2.12

It’s nice and quiet at the bookstore today. Very few people, the music is very low, no one is getting steamed milk drinks. It’s nice. No one is really here to socialize. Everyone’s working quietly. Some are reading magazines that they have no intention of buying. Others studying whatever. Quiet is nice. There should be more of it around. Check that; some teen girls just showed up and are reading texts to each other from teen boys they know and demonstrating how “totally stupid” they are. Here’s a sigh and a mourning of the quiet. You will be missed. Also, happy Groundhog’s Day.

I had planned to write something totally different today, but it was whiney and bitchy about my shitty life and I think we’ve had enough personal blogs for a couple weeks. Sorry, Becks and Butters. Stay tuned for more bitchy and whiney blogs in the coming weeks! Isn’t that a great tease? Just makes you want to tune in to see how pitiful I can be. Yeah; I’d rather watch Dog The Bounty Hunter instead as well. Who wouldn’t? But I was forwarded a link from the beautiful Steph Vicious, and I will try to write about that now. Narration of what I’m actually doing is fascinating, isn’t it? Sips coffee, checks phone, moves chair, gives dirty look to shitty shoe on teen girl, smiles at a baby, respectfully nods to an elderly couple… 

The link lead me to an article, albeit a brief one, that was called “Why Put A Bumper Sticker On A Ferrari?” It was written by a girl (I’m intentionally not saying woman because I think it’s a funny way to be snarky and assholish) named Lisa Khoury who is an assistant news editor for The Spectrum. I bet it isn’t a pyramid like prism that makes groovy colors on the wall with sunlight. I think it’s a website or a paper or something. The article in the opinion section that Lisa Khoury wrote was about women and tattoo modification. By the clever title (which I’ve heard before, by the way) I think you can assume her position. Let’s talk about it.

Little girl Lisa Khoury writes about the beauty of women, the desire of men to ogle that beauty, and the retaining of class while maintaining and enhancing that beauty. Without tattoo modification, of course. The first paragraph is that typical, unmodified point of view about “rebellion” and 21^st century and having a “point to prove.” To those in our community of modification, we’ve heard this so many times that it has no meaning anymore. It’s an ignorant point of view to assume that the basis of modification and the motivation that instigates us to modify is to be rebellious or to make some kind of ‘look at me, I’m different because of this thing I did’ kind of point. But we don’t have to get into that because when I read these types of things, I tend to not glean much from it; it’s all recycled material and very rarely does it contain an original thought. Like Lisa Khoury’s opening.

She moves into a point with which I can and do agree. That women “are -naturally- beautiful creatures.” For those of you who have read me for the last nearly four years every week (yes, I know some blogs are a day or two late), you’ll know that I share this point of view, this mantra, and I celebrate it very loudly. Save your ‘you’re a misogynist’ emails, because if you know me, you know I’m not. Now go make me a pie. (That’s a joke, kids.) Lisa Khoury continues into an interesting area at this point. She talks about doing things to augment that beauty found uniquely in women. The first awkward thing is that Lisa Khoury contends that women hold the world’s beauty. I don’t wholly disagree, but I also don’t entirely agree either. It assumes that men cannot be beautiful, which would be in a stark contradiction to the idea that I hold which is that each living human has an inherent beauty in himself, man or woman. We are all beautiful. And all means genders of all types. Lisa Khoury continues on to say, “So what's more attractive than a girl with a nice body? I'll tell you what: a girl with class. Looks may not last, but class does. And so do tattoos. An elegant woman does not vandalize the temple she has been blessed with as her body.” This is another statement with which, in parts, I can agree. The nice body thing is mindless and ignorant. You’re beautiful if you’re five hundred pounds or missing a limb or made of green goo like Slimer. We’ll get back to that in a second. I agree that class is a much more becoming quality than most others in which we as a society place stock. Class rises, but this statement by Lisa Khoury as it resolves with the association of tattoos with vandalism creates the assumption that one (particularly a woman) with tattoo modifications cannot also be classy. This statement is untrue. See also, my mother. See also, my sister. See also, millions of mothers and daughters and business owners and wives and girlfriends and partners and lovers and artists and teachers. To assume that tattoo modification erodes the class of the wearer is careless and uneducated.

Lisa Khoury submits that if a woman is unhappy with her aesthetic (which clearly is why we all modify), then her options are as follows: “She goes to the gym. She dresses it up in lavish, fun, trendy clothes, enjoying trips to the mall with her girlfriends. She accentuates her legs with high heels. She gets her nails done. She enjoys the finer things in life, all with the body she was blessed with. But marking it up with ink? That's just not necessary.” This is the statement, at this point in the article, with which I take the most umbrage. This speaks very simply to me this idea: As introduced in the exposition, which we all learned in English class ought to present a thesis for the entire work, Lisa Khoury takes a position against the idea that some women chose to be “cutting edge,” yet the alternative presented is to dress up in “trendy clothes” and go to the mall and get your fingernails painted. Yes, women like things like clothes and malls and fingernail paint and high heels. But couldn’t one argue that submitting to stereotypes of what a group ought to be or how that group ought to behave stunts that group from maturing and evolving into something else away from those stereotypes? It’s like saying (follow me on this one) that since I’m Italian, I shouldn’t be modified because my aesthetic options ought to be reserved for pin striped suits, slimy mustaches and VO5 Hot Oil in my hair. Oh memories of having my grandmother babysit me…

The last several paragraphs of this Lisa Khoury jaunt attempt to facilitate her point that tattoos are poo on lady types and that a woman’s time ought to be budgeted more for “effort into a gym membership, or yoga classes, or new clothes, or experimenting with different hairstyles if you're craving something new with your body, not a tattoo.” Yes, Lisa Khoury; you’re right. Women ought to be worried about their aesthetic in the yoga class and the gym and the clothing store and the salon but in no way ought a woman enhance her aesthetic by way of the beautiful art we call tattoo modification in the tattoo shop. That would just be silly.

This last bit, which is actually in the middle of her cute little rant, has the most venom to me. And yes, Lisa Khoury; I know you didn’t intend on the venom. Such are the results of ignorance I suppose. Anyway, here’s the quote: “But at the end of the day, are you really a happier person? Has this tattoo, for instance, caused you to learn something new about yourself? Has it challenged you? Has it led you to self-growth? Nothing comes out of getting a tattoo.” If I sigh any more I’m going to pass out. Like when you were little and you’d hold your breath until you passed out. Yes, Lisa Khoury; there are those of us who garner happiness from tattoo modification. Yes, it has challenged some of us in ways that you seem to be unable to see. Yes, we have grown in ways such as comfort and aesthetic peace, like your up-do or high heels or mall shopping with the gals does for you. Many things come from modification. My modifications have helped me deal with a robbed sense of self that is sitting in a biohazard can somewhere in Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. Using the body to help the brain? Whaa? Yeah, that’s right, Lisa Khoury. Tattoo and piercing modifications are a far cry from electroshock therapy or lobotomies. My modifications have given me my body back. After years and years and years of having men in white coats and rubber gloves touch your private parts and run long and frightening needles into your spine, a change in hairdo or a pair of high heels aren’t going to cut it. Having your body taken away from you is a dreadful and lonely happening. How do you reclaim it? Spending money at the mall with your lady friends, wooing and guffawing and swinging shopping bags around like a whirling dervish while eyeing every penis wielding human type in the place and assuming that he’s looking at you because you just came from yoga or the gym and you think you’re looking fine doesn’t really sound like a reclaiming celebration of your beauty to me. It sounds like a costume party. It sounds like making a masquerade of life and hiding behind what Cosmopolitan says to do and not what your womanhood is telling you to do to be more comfortable and to feel like the unique and beautiful woman you are.

Yes, Lisa Khoury; women are the epitome of beauty, not to preclude men from any beauty. And if a woman is to fully embrace her own unique beauty, then she ought to pursue the aesthetic that best befits her. We all know, Lisa Khoury, that you have this Carrie Bradshaw thing going on, and that’s very cute; but if you want a society of women who are only striving for the aesthetic beauty that has been laid by Sex And The City, then you are castrating a variety of beauty that breeds a social acceptance for the different and the unique and the alternative point of view toward what beauty is and what beauty can be. You want a society of women in high heels and fingernail paint and hairdos who are clothes shopping after a good stretch at yoga so that you can flaunt around for the attention of men? That’s awesome. Go do that. But if I want to live in the reality of Jersey Shore or Baseball Wives or Housewives of Wherever, I’ll use Wonka’s TV devise to put me in that imaginary reality. That sounds like a horrible way to live, Lisa Khoury. I like my reality with variety and points of view and celebration of beauty in all ways, be it make up and shoes or tattoo modification or nudists or suspension or implants or natural girls. Aren’t we supposed to celebrate beauty and not beauty with an asterisk? Stay beautiful, kids. 

Let Lisa Khoury know what you think, kids:

lisa.khoury@ubspectrum.com 

source: 

http://www.ubspectrum.com/mobile/opinion/why-put-a-bumper-sticker-on-a-ferrari-1.2755789 

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