THE "EFB" QUESTION

For the past year or more, the vultures have been asking me why EFB is now (former) EFB. And for that time I have avoided answering the question, mainly because I wasn’t sure I knew. After all, she’s still the same person, for the most part. So what has changed?

She’s still a conservative, although she voted for Obama in the most recent election. Apparently, Catholic conservatives don’t feel comfortable with right-wing wing nuts like Sara Palin in the White House. Or maybe it was just her, considering her brother had no problem with the former Alaskan governor turned undeserved successful author.

She still has questionable views on race, especially as it pertains to the American condition and the causes for the issues we face on this side of the world. (Yes, lccb I’m including Central & South America).

She certainly hasn’t stopped believing in the “superiority” of white physical attractiveness. She still get into creaming, swearing, psychotic arguments with her mom both in person and over the phone which often culminate in her screeching, “evil old fucking bitch!” But most of you who have been reading me for years know her mom is an evil, insane old racist filled with more hate than the legal limit allows.

And if you know that, you probably also know that her siblings are a collective hive mind of intolerant, judgmental, superior minded assholes. So, what’s changed? What makes a peon like that no longer a total EFB? Well, it starts with me and my own hypocrisy.

As a left-leaning individual, I often cite environment as a determining factor in one’s behavior and actions. Having met she and her family that argument has grown in intensity; conservatives tend to judge based on moments without context and they are no exception. Well, she is an exception now.

Perhaps it has come from knowing me for so long or listening to what I had to say. Perhaps she’s literally never heard anyone present an intelligent argument to the contrary of what her sainted Libertarian brother said about all things political and social. Actually, I’m pretty sure that’s the case.

Maybe being with a person of mixed race has provided her with an outlook and perspective he never could have achieved with what I like to call a mono-toned person. That is mot likely the case as recent development have shown. (More on those in a later post)

Basically, I realized that in order for me to make my argument about environment, I had to acknowledge that she too is a product of hers. To do anything else would make me a hypocrite, like her family members that deal with their screed up kids then criticize “urban youth.”

So, I took a long hard look at my inner Scribe. Then I looked at her background. Then I watched how she related to her family members as oppose to when I first met her. Then I watched some “South Park” reruns and laughed hysterically and went to bed at which point I forgot about my little experiment for about three years. Or maybe it was three weeks, whatever. I got back to it eventually so who are you to criticize?

I used that objective journalistic training I never received and wound up seeing some disturbingly shocking truths; most notably that EFB was indeed a product of her environment. Without making excuses (and really, why would I?) I considered the type of family from which she’d come. A mom whose every moment is ruled by agenda and emotion, siblings who are of a hive mentality while still insisting they are individuals with their own minds, angered whenever she strays from the mold. In particular, she has two oppressive, incredibly sexist brothers who refute anything they don’t like hearing or that makes the white race look negative. I mentioned the brothers because her sisters seem to see thinking as a man’s game, especially the two married ones. The single, eldest sister has some ideas but spends most of her time garnering sympathy from their mother and turning her against EFB.

Add to this a father that would inflict physical punishment for such horrible transgressions as elbows on the dinner table and you gain a pretty clear insight into just how fucked up she should be.

However, EFB is nothing if not strong-willed. Somehow she has continued to carve out her own identity or at least as much as she can in light of the dictatorship he grew up under. Having finally stopped resisting listening to other forms of thought, namely that which occurs above the brain stem, she has become far more well rounded than those to whom she is related.

I call her former EFB because I no longer believe the “E” is accurate anymore than I would call the angry criminal evil because he succumbed to the often insurmountable bullshit in his environment. It’s easy to judge others when our own lives were far stabler. Yes, my parents also divorced when I was in single digits. Yes, my dad was about a useful in life as a third testicle. But my support system was strong and open-minded and I was never made to feel like a failure because I disagreed with someone or chose a different path. My mother never called me such lovely things as (list a many as possible) when I disappointed her in the name of tough love, which is obviously thinly disguised resentment.

It’s easy to judge someone who, on the surface, had ever advantage in modern American life. But then I look at her nieces and nephews who have even more and realize that doesn’t mean shit.

So, it was fun using the acronym but I can’t in good conscience continue to do so. That’s why she’s (former) EFB~

REPLIES TO DEATH POST COMMENTS:

Instead of replying in the comments section of my previous post, I thought I’d write an actual response to all you splendiferous mothafukas that took the time to write such impassioned comments. Y’all is some truly delightful sum bitches.

Okay, enough gooey praise.

I’ll respond to Green first, as he has been my most ardent commenter and loyal reader, especially over the past year as Facebook has taken my Blogger family away from me one by one:

I’m not afraid of death either, I’m afraid of a wasted life. I don’t scoff at your belief in a bright and sunny reward in the after-life, I simply don’t share it. I have my own beliefs about what happens once we’re no longer in our bodies and it isn’t based on a reward system of faith and devout observation. I disagree strongly with the idea that what happens after we die doesn’t matter if there’s nothing after. In fact, I think that’s insane. AG is absolutely right when he writes that it matters even more what we do if we don’t have the luxury of faith in a pleasant reward. In that scenario, we only have one time to get “it” right and whatever we do would have lasting implications on future generations. I suppose if you have no conscience, that doesn’t matter but most of us do. And yes, perhaps I do seek “inner peace,” but easy answers and fairytales don’t provide them.

AG: Yeah, funerals are for the living in most cases, unless you’re former EFB’s egomaniacal Dad. His funeral was very much for himself. I guess if it helps those I leave behind to mourn me in a building with music and flowers and endless religious platitudes so be it, but like you I don’t really care what happens next. I do care about how my body is disposed of, however. I choose cremation, which many Christians frown upon because they believe the body must be intact for when Christ rides down on Pegasus and reanimates corpses and, hopefully, brings lots of Lysol. I guess God can’t reanimate ashes; there they go again, putting the all-powerful God in a box.

Madge: You are absotively correct. My gripe is with my life itself. I do feel that I came close to having lived but I backed away and wound up in some sort of cocoon. Whether or not I have touched anyone deeply, I suppose I have had a definite impact on lives. I know I’ve touched people on Blogger that’s why you guys are special to me and why I tagged you in the Facebook note. The rest of those fair-weather fuckheads will come and go like the fad-chasers they are. You guys are my core and I love every single one of you for it, even those of you who read but no longer comment. Being over 35 doesn’t matter to me, it’s just that I never thought I’d live as long as I have. As far as life being a gift, I would like my gift receipt!

My dearest Autumn: as usual, you hit the donkey on the nail with the head and tail thingee! It is the story that matters. As a writer, I find it to be true for me even more than it is for others. It’s not the peaceful death of the well-lived life that effects me, it’s the tragic ending of the guy everybody loved who died trying to mend fences with a stubborn, arrogant family. It’s the idea of me having made no significant impact on the world being snuffed out like a Roman candle. These are the tales that send me into such deep thoughts of despair. But I am touched that I have served as an inspiration to you. I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before. I’m also glad to read that some of you find my sense of humor helpful in hard times. If nothing else, I strive for that. Making people think outside their comfort zones (Green is exempt from this ‘cause he’s all righteous with Gawd) is what I’ve considered to be my mission in life. It’s gratifying to know I’ve accomplished this on a relatively sizable scale. Trust me, not having to support anyone does not fill me with sadness LOL

Oh, and thanks for the womb offer. We’ll chat later. Love you, too.

Blanche: I almost posted this without your comment because it came through after I’d written this. I actually attended both the wake and the funeral. Catholics are huge into displaying dead bodies and talking around them so there he was all exposed for everyone to see. And like you said, it has stuck with me for days now. The tragedy of a guy I think I might have liked who seemed to be loved by so many is a powerful concept. I may well die a successful man, but the “good” part is debatable. I am so intensely flawed. And I am writing another book and have the sequel to the one that’s for sale coming out in the next few months, so there!

THOUGHTS ON DEATH & DYING

I’ve had death on my mind quite a bit lately.

That’s a lie. I’ve always had death on my mind. Since I was an adolescent, I’ve always believed my life would be a short one. When both of my parents died relatively young (Dad at 47 from lung cancer, Mom at 54 from type I Diabetes) that feeling became even more prevalent.

Ironically, I never thought I’d make it past thirty-five. Now that I have, I think I’m living on borrowed time, each year a surprise. It’s okay, though. Some people aren’t cut out for this world and don’t do very well in it if they have to stick around past their welcome. But what will I leave behind when I’m gone?

A few swollen eyes? Some genuine sadness? What else? A few books bearing my name that may or may not become considered worthy of mention as the years wear on? Maybe that’s all I can hope for anyway.

I have no children to carry on my name and DNA. I may never have any. There are no foundations bearing my name and I’m not a well-known celebrity. I don’t believe in anything so people of faith won’t look at me as someone of deep, abiding belief that has gone on to a just reward. My family is small and getting smaller all the time and I have no siblings to recall funny stories about me when I was a kid. I have lived a life unseen and unnoticed and when I am gone I doubt there will be very many stories worth telling at my funeral.

That beings me to the funeral itself. What kind would I want? Truthfully, I would prefer not to have one at all. I’ve never considered them to be useful for the living and my ego isn’t over-developed enough to ensure that people cry when I’m gone. I don’t want people looking on in amazement because it looks nothing like me. It isn’t me. It is a suit I wore until whatever was inside could no longer remain there. I don’t want a holy man speaking about me because that would just be hypocritical.

But I can’t help wondering what people would say about me. Would they say I was funny or generous or talented or smart? Would people have a difficult time standing in front of an I’m sure small group of people and lying about what a wonderful person I was? I don’t know. Unlike former EFB’s dad, I’m not megalomaniacal enough to script my own funeral so that a horrible person cannot help but be mourned.

I don’t have much to leave behind, at least not at this point. Without children, I don’t have to worry about the futures of my progeny and that simplifies matters quite a bit. So, the only persons I need to worry about after I’m dead are those that mattered to me while I was alive. That brings me to my will.

I can’t help but smirk a bit as I write this because, honestly, what the hell do I have to leave anybody? My book and music collections? The comic books of my youth and more recent years? A car nobody could possibly want except for the scrap metal and spare parts opportunities? Oh, I know. My unfinished work! There’s a collector’s item. I can assure you there is no family member worthy of leaving my half of the house to. It’s going to be a very succinct will.

I suppose the same could be said of my life thus far. I won’t be presumptuous enough to make the blanket statement that I have had little to no effect on the lives of others. During my father’s funeral, a man whose life was less than exemplary and whose inability to form lasting relationships was legendary, so many people showed up that the priest apologized for not having enough room to accommodate them all.

We have no idea how many lives we touch and change while we’re here and we probably never will. Those of us that think nobody noticed them or took something they did to heart are deluded fools. So yes, there probably will be a few more people at my funeral than I think, assuming there is a funeral at all.

What’s causing such maudlin thoughts to run through my head and spill over onto this screen? I attended a funeral the other day of a man who died of cancer at the age of 49.

I never met him because he is related to former EFB’s mother and there has been a long-standing three-decade feud between she and her siblings. But from what I’ve heard, he would have been the one person in her entire family I genuinely liked. So, naturally he died before I got the chance.

Ironically, he was the one that tried for years to bring his family back together, facing constant ridicule and hostility for the effort. How ironic that his dying wish was to have them come see him one last time. Watching him breathe on his own when he shouldn’t have been able to and hearing his death rattle, lungs filled with fluid, I could tell he was a man with a strong life-force and love for life in general.

I am neither.

I hate life and I don’t much care for people and if I suddenly found out I was dying I would not have the strength to keep doing the things I did and to refuse oxygen when my time came. I would be angry about the suffering and bitter about my wasted time on Earth and would want nothing to do with anyone in my final days.

There would be no celebration of a life lived for Scribe. No packed church with weeping children and an entire town mourning my passing. Call me a fatalist if you must, but I am only being realistic. As we left the service and headed for the eating area, former EFB’s brother turned to me and said, “He’s got some really big shoes, doesn’t he?” Still choked up by the service, I nodded and looked away. If this was coming from a guy whose life could put him in those shoes, what the hell chance do I have of filling them?

Maybe that’s what my eulogy should say: “He did what he could when he thought about it, but most times he just existed.”

What else is there to say?

SOME RANDOM SCRIBE SHIT BEFORE THE NEXT BIG POST:

DUDE: Hiatus is over. After all that Dude falderal, I needed to take a blogging break. Besides, like some of you, I was a bit let down by no longer having old Dude to kick around anymore.

Still, that wasn’t the end of the story. There are snippets of further developments from the past couple weeks since she went home. For one thing, that fucking idiot actually misses her. Damn!And I thought I had a co-dependency issue! He actually MISSES the evil, manipulative genius that plotted against him and turned his family into enemies within less than a two-month period.

Dude is quite the study in social backwardness. Nobody likes him, he doesn’t seem to like anybody, yet he can’t stand to be alone for longer than a short time. He wants so badly to be with someone that he is capable of lamenting the loss of a horrible mistake. So much for all that “happy dance” shit.

As you may recall, there is a Canadian woman who expressed interest in his Dudeness while the evil Aussie was here. Somehow, magically, her interest has waned since he became available again. Apparently, she told him that, had he been stronger in dealing with the Aussie, she might not have started to “lose that lovin’ feeling.” First, does that sound like a reference a young chick would make? Second, even Dude wasn’t so obtuse as to not realize she might only be interested in the hunt.

However, he decided to put an update on his Facebook page saying how much he missed “someone.” The Aussie who is apparently still his Facebook Friend wrote back one of those, “Aww, miss you too,” etc replies. The Canuck wrote, “No, he’s talking about me. And you don’t look anything like your profile pic.”
(This one has promise)

ME: I wrote about this a while back but because nothing seems to be changing, I am writing it again. This has been one of the worst years of my life. My next post will provide more details. I can’t believe the same year my book is released is the year I rank as possibly number two in a long list of bad years. You’d think this would have been an automatic great one but alas, no.

Thus my Big Publication Moment has been a mixed blessing, a tiny pinpoint of light in a veil of darkness and, in many cases, the only thing keeping me going. Well, that and the positive reviews I’ve received both professionally and personally.

When I post how my year has gone this year, you will see what I mean.

NEWS STUFF: My former hero David Letterman is a cockhound. Why is he my former hero? Not because of his recently revealed lewd workplace conduct. In the Eighties, Dave was my TV god, the anti-Carson whose show was a study in pure anarchy. Enjoyment of his show got me through some pretty bad times as it always gave me something to look forward to. When he was fucked over in favor of Lantern Jaw Leno, I was the loudest protestor in underwear shaking a grilled cheese sammitch of rage at the TV. And in the beginning, when Dave went to CBS, he was still great. But somewhere along the way he fell from grace and began boring me to tears. He was still better than Leno, but so is an unwiped homeless man's ass.

If I'd known about his sexual proclivities, my opinion might have changed even sooner. How dare he sleep with women who work him...and not brag about it? What kinda pimp daddy does that? Fuck you, Dave! You bastard! I thought you were cool. You ain't bad! You ain't nothin'!

Well, that's the only newsstory worthy of me. When next I post, I'll tell y'allz about my run-in with John Law...(That's the legal system for those of us born after 1947)