The Truth From a Goth 8/20/03

'All great Truths begin as Blasphemies.' George Bernard Shaw

I just got a Truth letter--my first for a good, long time--and the above was on the subject line. Pretty cool, huh? Wish I'd known about that quote five years ago, I'd've put it on back then. Anywho, I'm pretty sure I'm going to work that quote onto the scheme of the main page somewhere, so it'll likely be there for a while.

Before I get too deep into this letter, I should probably take a moment to talk about some current events. Not, not current events across the globe--just my own personal version of current events. Sort of a microscopic version of current events. Actually, I think there's really only one or two things I need to mention.

The first has to do with my vampire novel, never dream. It'll be available to buy soon, again. For those of you who aren't aware, I printed 500 copies of the book myself back in 1999. I figured they'd last forever, but forever turned out to be a span of time lasting approximately twelve months. It's been three years, but I think I'm officially getting close to having that out again. I wish I could say exactly how close, but I just can't be sure. It's pretty close. Very, very close. Truth is, I'm actually waiting for a book cover for that sucker. A really cool book cover, designed by my extremely talented sister-in-law Barbette. I have strong reason to believe that I could have that cover next week. Of course, I've had strong reason to believe I'd have that book cover next week for the last seven months or so--but now, I have really strong reason to believe that I'll have that book cover next week. Or, at some point within the next seven months. But, soon. Real, real soon.

And here's a real ego-boost--someone's actually selling a used copy of never dream on Amazon for $190.36. At least they were. The price may have come down by now--at least it has if someone wants to actually sell it. Not that it's not a very nice little book--but any book that costs $190 had better either increase my dick size by 30% or get me out of paying income tax forever. I'd be tempted to at least call it a collectable--but that sort of money is what I might expect someone to pay for it after I'm more famous than I ever expect myself to be.

So in short--wait for the second printing to come out.

And now, on to this letter.

my first question relates to a topic you've tackled many times before: bisexual chicks. as coincedence has it, i happen to be of the species of women that finds it...nice...to surround myself with fish as opposed to sausage, to put it lightly.

That's 'lightly?' What's bluntly? 'Cunt instead of Cock?'

Now, my question is this: why is it okay for men to get off on watching me hook up with my girlfriend, but when EYE (spelled that way for emphasis) want to watch two GUYS hook up, people look at me like i just walked out of teletubbie land holding hands with a frog in a pink dress. i dont get it. i think two guys can be just as sexy as two girls (until they start whipping out the whacking stick, but im not a particular fan of that part of the male anatomy anyway. but thats just me) for some reason, you being male and all, i think i should have sent THIS one to the mrs. still, ill let you toy with it for a bit.

It's true that I am--in fact--a male. They don't come any more male than me. I don't even like to dance. I'm that male. However, I think I'm still qualified to answer this question, as the Truth behind this is genderless.

Men are ugly, and women are pretty. Sex is pretty. Women + Sex = Very Pretty. Men + Sex = Very, Very Ugly. Maybe if Men had vaginas, it would be different. But Men don't have vaginas. I can verify this, as I've just re-checked. Instead, Men have Whacking Sticks--and only if they're in the right mood. If they're not in the right mood they have Vienna Sausages or Limp Macaroni. It's just not what anyone wants to see. Anyone. Not even heterosexual women want to see this.

If I'm watching a movie with my wife and any of the above three items makes an appearance, at best she'll mumble, "Oh, I didn't need to see that." At worse, she'll raise her hand to cover the screen. (Either that, or she's just mocking me--because by then I've invariably raised my own hand to block that part of the screen from view.) (The more I think of it, the more I think she may actually be mocking me. I'll have to talk to her about that later.)

Bear in mind that all of the above only applies to Sex. Love is different. A man and a woman holding hands is beautiful. A woman and a woman holding hands is beautiful (and hot, because of what they might do to each other later). And this may not be a popular opinion, but two men holding hands is also beautiful--because Love is beautiful.

In fact, two men holding hands isn't just beautiful. It's courageous. Because despite the fact that we have somehow reached the year 2003, most people of my generation and older have not yet quite come to terms with that sort of thing. Notice how I said, 'people of my generation and older' instead of 'we?' That's because I'm hoping that shows like Ellen and Will & Grace change all that. I'm hoping that the teenagers coming up today are a little more open and understanding than we were twenty years ago when I was going through school.

Don't get me wrong--we'd already come quite a long way by then. I can name off the top of my head at least four guys in my high school who were gay, and no one ever gave them any shit for it. Of course, they weren't overtly gay. That's definitely more than we could have handled. We didn't have any same-sex couples at the prom, for example. But I never saw or heard about anyone getting their ass beat for homosexuality--and this was back in the days when we thought homosexuals had doomed the human race with the AIDS virus they'd somehow managed to invent. 'Those damned-crafty Gays will kill us all! Damned crafty Gays!"

Speaking of proms, when I read that a high-school in Georgia threw a second prom--an all-white prom--I couldn't help think but how incredibly progressive we were at my little New Jersey high school. Which reminds me--anyone who attended the all-white prom in Georgia is officially invited die of cancer at a young age. You're moving in the wrong fucking direction, kiddies. I'm putting an awful lot of faith in you, as members of the next generation. Don't let me down or I'll stab you in the throat with my laundry room key.

And yes, that hurts every bit as much as you think it would.

on to bigger and better things (if there is such a thing). i got a slight sense of goth-bashing from some of your truths, and i must say i dont blame you. thing is, i fit the bill. i ware black, i love bauhaus, cloves are my fav cigs (yes, yes, i know they rip and tear at your lungs until they are nothing but a large mass of black jello ten times faster than regular cigs, but hey...cat piss isnt all that good for you either wink wink). but lets face it. im tired of other people giving me a bad name. im not sad. im not depressed all the time. i dont do slow interperetive dance to a 900bpm industrial song. i dont feel it necessary to whine about people judging me oh-so-cruelly while doing the same thing to them by calling random never-before-spoken-to people "damn normals." i dont like having contests to find out whos black is the blackest on the "runways" typically known as goth clubs, and i, under no circumstances whatsoever, DO NOT think i am a vampire. im ranting. sorry. so ill make this quick (okay, so it isnt a question, more of a statement) Relax, iago, we're not ALL retarted. ...damn normals

The breed you describe is different than the breed I slapped around in an earlier Truth. For one, I like black clothes. I'd probably own all black clothes--except for the fact that I'm too tall to shop for normal clothes. I buy my pants online--and wore pants that didn't quite fit in the days when you couldn't do that sort of thing.

Khaki pants. Most of you probably take those for granted. You think, 'Yeah, if I want a pair of Khaki pants, I walk into a store and I buy them. What's so hard about that?' Can you say thirty-six inch inseam? Can you say extra-extra-long? (Long is thirty-two inches. Extra Long is thirty-four inches.) Imaging being an adult with your socks showing over your shoes, explaining to people, 'But they were extra-long! I'm only six-foot-five! That's not extra-tall! That's only regular tall! If it were extra tall, I could somehow make a living at being tall!') (No argument is sufficient when your socks show above your shoes. None.)

So, as I was saying, I'd probably wear all black if I could. But when I find something that fits, I'm just so excited that it fits that I don't care what color it is. This is why tall people usually dress so poorly. At least they used to, before the Internet. God Bless Al Gore, and his Mighty Internet!

And the music--I prefer to write to 900 beats-per-minute music. I love that techno-stuff, whatever it's called. Can't get enough of it.

Body-piercings? Sure they're stupid--but are they any more stupid than the parachute pants I had in the 80s? especially considering my parachute pants were only 'long'? Good-Christ, no. Parachute pants should come at least to your ankles, even to meet the commonly recognized standard for Bad Taste. And body piercings will heal when the piercee in question grows the hell up.

No--all of this isn't what I hold against the Goth-lite. What I hold against the Goth-lite is Self Pity. Oh, woe-is-me. My life is hard. Love is a lie and money is evil--but I'm lonely and I can't afford a cheeseburger.

Yes, love was a lie with your last boyfriend. You should have known this when he met your mother and asked if your parent's marriage was rock-solid, or if you thought he might have a shot. Dump them as soon as you find out he/she is a loser, and move to the next one. There are some real people out there. Find one--and when you do, don't shoot them down just because they're a real person. 'There's no passion there--he doesn't even slap me around.' This is unhealthy. Get past it.

As for money--yes, it's true that the most wealthy people in the world usually become the most wealthy people in the world by being Bad People. This doesn't mean that you can't show up at your day-job five days a week and work hard and pay your bills. You're not entitled to have your birthday off. You're not entitled to a high-speed Internet connection. You're not entitled to sit around the house and smoke weed on a Wednesday. God didn't grant you that when he created the earth. If you want to live a certain way, then get off your ass. Finish high school. Finish college. Get a job, and show up every day just like the rest of us. If you can't handle that, we don't want to hear your gripes about how bad the world is. Your world is bad because you choose to live in a bad world. Get over your choice, or choose something else. Either way, shut the fuck up. You're not going to have all the cool stuff your parents had unless you're willing to work as hard as they did.

okay heres my last grumble with todays far-from-impeccable planet: when i cut my damn hair, why does EVERYONE AND THEIR MOTHER feel the need to point it out to me? don't you think i noticed that my hair is twelves inches shorter than it was yesterday? like "oh my god you cut your hair!" oh, shit, are you serious? i thought the loss of weight was just my fucking eyeballs fleeing from the rest of my head to avoid the sight of YOU. and its not just hair, its ANY minor difference. "oh my god, youre waring lipstick today!" very good, little one. if you can tell me the color, you get an "A" for the day. "Oh my goodness, you've got blue jeans on today!" your power of perception astounds me. "Oh jesus, look everyone, she has two legs!"shockingly enough, you're not the first person to notice.

Once, I wore contacts instead of glasses to work. Someone actually stopped me in the hall and asked me if I shaved my beard. Um ... I don't have a beard. Literally. I have some strange hairs growing out of my face, but no real beard. I know, it's strange. I have enough testosterone in my system to propel me to a freakish height and grant me 'farmboy' strength, but the hair on my face refuses to be macho.

However, when someone notices some minor difference about your appearance, what they're really saying is, "Gosh, I sure would like to have sex with you. But I know I can't have sex with you until I find some reason to strike up a conversation with you--and hey, you changed something about yourself! I can strike up a conversation about that! And that might lead to sex! Cool! I like sex! A lot!"

My own response to someone noticing a haircut varies. If I like the person who notices--that is, if I genuinely think that person is not trying to bed my married-ass--I explain that I'm wearing lifts in my shoes and that makes my hair look shorter. It's usually good for a laugh all the way around.

However, if I think that person is only trying to buy a dollar-ride on my bologna pony (read it out loud--it actually rhymes! Thank you, Andrew Dice Clay!) I simply tell them the lie that I like them as friends and explain to them that I couldn't possibly consider sleeping with them because I'm married and I don't shove my dick into stupid people anymore.

If I'm feeling particular generous (this is theory, of course--I never feel what's referred to as 'generosity.') (I'm just not built that way) (I blame my parents)--but if I'm feeling particularly generous I explain that Mrs. Steele has an IQ I estimate to be well over 150 and that my standards for stupid are on the high-side. JFK had an IQ of around 120, but he couldn't think of any alternative to killing Marilyn Monroe. I'm sure to him it seemed like the best thing to do. But let's face it--a smarter man could have thought of a better option. Albert Einstein wouldn't have killed her.

alright, then. im finished. hope i could be of some use. if not, well, ill just have to...never mind. ill love you anyway.
ps- thought youd like the quote i stuck up in the subject for you. it...fits :)

Aw ... she loves me. That's a nice thing to say. I'm sure she means that she loves my writing--but that's still really cool considering how I've slapped around the Goth-lites. Not that she's a Goth-lite. That's not what I meant. I mean ... I've dealt a fair amount of abuse to not only those who wear black, but those who practice body-piercings. And yet, she still loves this typing-thing I do. That's nice to hear. Er ... read.

Um ... I 'love' you too. I love that you enjoy the end results of my fingers running rapidly across this keyboard of mine. If not for your letter, lord knows how long it would have been before I wrote another Truth.

Oh, and I love the thought of you holding hands with another chick, too. Let's not forget that.

Because it could lead to something hot.