THE DRAMA

I'm compelled to wonder why folks seek out drama in their lives.

I'm not talking about soap opera entertainment, theatre or performance art.

I'm talking about the tawdry human dramas that make something out of nothing and insist on then enlarging that nothing into a something that become all-consuming.

Just living should contain enough drama that one doesn't have to go creating it.

My recent post is an example of potential drama: It's an idle what-if doddle through my mind that, if dwelt upon, could actually become some passion of destruction that could consume my life, if I were serious about it. (The spate of comments that followed it were interesting, although one thread degenerated into drama for no real reason.)

Then today I was talking to a buddy on AIM who was telling me about the drama in HIS life. Except that in his case, he was making the drama happen. He was on about this guy he likes going with this girl he doesn't like, who's cheating on him, but he wants to be friends with this guy but she won't let him...blah blah BLAH.

And this guy is in knots. He can't divorce himself from it, although this other couple's problems have nothing to do with him.

This all reminded me of drama I had in my life a couple years back. And then I got to thinking about the drama that seemed to surround every single group of human beings I ever associated myself with.

Some drama is real. Addiction, abuse, depression... these are real things that are part and parcel of the human experience. But to go out and CREATE drama for oneself? To "borrow trouble," as Mother M might put it?

The hell is with that?

I believe it stems from our need to connect with other human beings; from our innate caveman-brain desire for tribal community. No man is an island, they say. Therefore I think that people who feel too isolated-- or, to put it bluntly, have too much damn time on their hands-- create drama to involve themselves with those around them. And in these days of Internet connectivity, "those around them" takes on a much more global meaning.

It seems, too, that drama is inversely proportionate to exactly how much the topic at hand really matters in the grand scheme of things. Therefore, gossip of no real value becomes the Worst Thing Imaginable whereas an actual ISSUE is handled with gentler reassurances and a twelve-step program.

There's a phrase I can't quite remember; but it has to do with University politics and I believe it goes: "No issue too small." In fact, the smaller the better, because by the time it's blown out of proportion no one would recognize it as a small issue anymore.

Agents, I'll share with you my mother's wisdom on this subject. She doesn't always keep to it herself, but none of us is our ideal self one hundred percent of the time: "Before you put your energy into an issue, consider who's going to benefit." Who WILL benefit from your involvement? You are SPENDING time and effort. Will this drama repay you in some way? Will you sleep better, become enriched, or in some way grow as a person? Consider these things before investing in the Shadow Play you see before you.

We all do this to some extent. We ALL have The Drama. I just think it's important to step back once in a while and realize it.

WHAT IF IT WERE OVER?

What would I do if my marriage ended tomorrow?

I have an inner goth. Meaning I'm not usually a depressive person, but inside I have a huge Worst Case Scenario file, most of it involving death or dying scenarios-- or gruesome dismemberment or debilitation, which fall under the category of death because if it happened to me, I'd wish I were dead.

What if my wife died? What if our son died? What if?

It's morose, but I believe on some psychological level I want to be prepared for the worst case scenario. So I run them in my head. At any given time in my life I've seen my loved ones die or leave or generally vanish from my life, so that I can get a coping mechanism running.

Macabre, some would say. Depressing, others might interject. Who knows? I respond. It's just something my mind does.

And tonight, something less FINAL but I think much more painful entered my large Morose File. (See, it's an M, too.)

What if my marriage ended tomorrow?

I'd still be alive. But my life would change, and change drastically.

My father's parents went through it. My parents went through it. My brother is going through it. This is why the clammy hand of possibility has decided to trail its bony finger down my spine: It's personally relevant to me.

My initial response would be to leave my entire life behind. TOTAL write-off. Friends, family, everybody. Hell, I might even change my name. (Again.) I would want to vanish away from not so much the pain, but from the tawdry stickiness that inevitably follows the breakup of a couple: Sympathetic friends, reconciliatory parents and extended family, the counselling, the complicated divvying up of the last ten years of my life.

But I don't know what I'd really DO. The lifestyle I have only works in a couple. Neither of us make enough money to make everything work alone. Plus now there's the baby. And my god, I actually feel that if my marriage broke up that I'd never want to see his face again. Where does THAT come from, I wonder?

I'd have to start over somewhere. I'd probably move to Toronto, since I have friends there, and it's the best place I can think of to start a career. I'd have to get a roommate. I'd have to get a McJob of some kind to pay the bills while I was floundering to find my place in life.

I couldn't ask Marci to sell the house, or the car, or anything. She'd need the stability for Peter's sake. I'd want her to have the material things; all my investment is in the emotional things and those would be gone. And that's something I can't really wrap my mind around: That the emotional ties would be gone. I just can't understand divorce. Mentally, yes, but not with my heart. I just can't see how that could ever happen, not in REAL life (things that happen to other people somehow don't count as "real" in these circumstances).

And yet...what if?

It would be so devastating for me, realistically, that it would be a kind of death. I would have to move to another city, almost become a different person. I don't think I'd write to anyone or speak to anyone, not even family. How could I? How could I possibly do it? How could I acknowledge that my old life was gone?

People who've gone through it would probably tell me that everyone feels that way, the grief, the loss...and that you move through it.

But not me. I could let go of the past, sure, but only if I got the hell out of Dodge. If I literally stepped away from my life. That's what I'd do if my marriage ended tomorrow.

God, what a nightmare. I wanted to write about it, before I lost the train of thought, but I apologize if I've freaked any of you out.

NO NOTHIN' SHALL ESCAPE MY SIGHT

This is one of those superhero geek questions. No, there's no clickable survey. This is a long-answer only, kids.

If you had a Green Lantern Power Ring, what would you do?

Let's assume this is the new all-braw asskicker of a Power Ring with no impurities, no weakness against yellow or wood or sardines or small women named Petula.

Let's assume you've got a Power Ring with 24 hours of supercharge that is limited only by your imagination and your will to use it. Bathe yourself in a green glow and get WILLing, baby.

Here's what I'd do:
I'd have to fly, first. I'd zip around the world to tons of different places. No borders, no airplanes, just freedom to travel when and where I wanted.

I'd even go to the moon. You can fly in SPACE with one of those things. Me. Alone. On the MOON. My god it'd be neat.

I think I'd blow up the White House. It's not that I'm a terrorist or anything, I just want someone to stop all the political bitching and whining and give the American folks some focus. A green beam from OUTER SPACE would probably do that.

Also, I hate to admit it but I'm no superhero. I really just want to see something blow up. Kaboom!

While on the bitter vein, sure, I'd fly over Quebec and fry the french part of every sign. Bitches.

Sorry, LES Bitches.

And if I still had time I'd repair all the little glitches and scratches on my house and other propery and restore them to new.

Part philosophical, part petty. Yeah. Sounds balanced to me.

M

THE MUTANT MAC FACTOR

As much as I love Macintosh, I have noticed a very sinister situation that only seems to happen to Mac dealers.

I'm sure any of you who have shopped for computers have gone into the store, found the computer section, and like as not while browsing have met The Geek. The Geek isn't just a salesman he's...well, he's different. First glance will tell you everything; unkempt hair, ill-fitting clothes (even if it's the store's uniform) and hand-wringing, head-bobbing or other decidedly un-salesmanlike quirky behaviour.

That's because he's not a salesman. He's The Geek. Unlike all those other guys parading through the department, he knows what he's talking about. You just wish it wasn't HIM you had to talk to.

So it goes in computer stores. It's just the way things are.

But in Mac stores it's a little different. A little sinister.

Recently I went shopping for a new Mac and therefore went to every place in town that sells Macs to compare prices, which means I was exposed to this phenomenon at least twice in rapid succession:

Mac dealerships are populated by mutants.

Normal Mutant.

It's not something you'd notice as a pattern right away. I mean, some people have physical quirks, y'know? Doesn't mean it's some kind of conspiracy.

A long time ago there used to be a decent Mac section at the Compusmart near where I live. And they had one Mac Guy-- a version of The Geek who was both competent and knowledgeable about the Macintosh. And I had gone to the store with some questions, and was directed to him.

Yes, he had greasy flat-brushed hair and the eyes of the walking dead, but that's par for either slackers or geekdom, both of which frequently populate big-box computer chains. However, he also had the biggest mole on his face I'd ever seen. (Mole! Moley moley mole! GuacaMOLEY!) Well, no big deal. So he had a mole.

But now, looking back, I realize it was because he was young. The changes were only beginning. Or maybe it was because CompuSmart isn't a totally Mac dealership so he was shielded from the rays or whatever is responsible for this phenomenon.

I went to Mac Store #1 to buy my last computer. I was served by a gentleman with leg braces, whose legs are twisted and so he gets around using crutches strapped to his forearms. He kind of walks like those giant steeds the Gelflings rode in The Dark Crystal. Disconcerting at first glance, but so what?

And the girl behind the desk was overweight. Again, so what?

But then I had a truly bad experience actually GETTING my computer out of them, and the incompetence they displayed and the frustration I had with the situation prompted me to name them Crip and Heifer, a dynamic duo of poor salesmanship and zero follow-through, so confrontationally incompetent I had to give them nicknames. I even made a song about them. Long story short, I vowed never go to back there. This was in 1998.

But recently, I went to Mac Store #2 during my pricing-out foray. There's one salesman available to help me. I'm looking at laptops and he comes up beside me and asks if he can help me. I look up-- and it's all I can do to keep from jumping backwards about two feet.

His eyes are too-too light, and they don't track properly. His face is...is MELTING, is the impression I have, because nothing sits quite right on it. Plus his mouth never quite closed. I had the distinct impression that they had jars in the back labeled "Salesman One" and "Salesman Two" and the mutant beings that owned the store took turns putting the masks on to deal with customers.

I bought my laptop via a third party, my Dad, through his contacts at the University. I never had to venture near the store. But to get a wireless card, I had to go somewhere else as they were out of stock.

Mac Sales Mutant.

So, after six years, I revisited Mac Store #1. Crip is still there, he's the one that gave me a price quote on the whole laptop set-up. (Yeah, I got prices from them even though I said I'd never shop there again. It's all about pricing, y'see.)

But when I walked in, the only salesman is standing with his BACK to me and is watching Bruce Almighty on DVD on one of the demo models. And that's when I saw it:

He had an IMPLANT. A NODE. A BORG DEVICE, grafted into the base of his skull behind his ear. At first I thought: "Another mole?" Until I saw its smooth metallic cylindrical shape like a transistor transmitter of the DEVIL.

I was the only guy in the store, and he didn't turn to acknowledge me. Doubtless he was receiving a download from his Infernal Master and couldn't perceive me. So I tell him I'm looking for a wireless card for my iBook, and he smiles and turns just enough to address -- boing! -- a pear-shaped salesman with fake-black hair and psychotic blue eyes, and tells him that I need a wireless card.

Pear-Shaped Devil's Minion says "We have 30 of them in the back." His eyes watery and gleaming, his golem's grin like a child's punch-bop toy. (Or maybe I'm just projecting my instinct to hit him.)

"I just need the one," I say. Fear. It was beginning to set in.

Pear Golem skipped-- I am not exaggerating-- off to the back to get my card. Devil Borg had returned to his movie, mesmerized.

It's not so much that he was a cybernetic tool of evil. It's that he had poor salesmanship, you understand. Sure you do.

Pear Golem returned and rang up my purchase. Grinning he handed it to me. Smiling as porcelainly as I could, I thanked him for my purchase and left the store, walking. Running would only betray my fear and excite them-- possibly incite them to charge the fence or summon more Borg Devils.

I got home with my wireless card, which works fine, and reflected in terror on this phenomenon. Mac Dealerships must, for some reason, be workplaces of the damned. Or Steve Jobs is performing redesign innovations on HUMANS and hasn't got it right yet.

Well, until Guy 2.0 is perfected, maybe you'll want to be careful about staying too long in any Mac sales environment. Or you, too, could wind up a mutant.

IT'S A MAC LIFE

Macintosh has been a part of my life since they were first introduced in 1984.

I had one of the original macs. Lightweight and portable, plug in and go, "ping" and you were on your way. It was just revolutionary.

I have likewise been delighted with each subsequent Mac that I have bought; the Performa PowerPC 5200, the beige G3 desktop 266 mHz, and even my interim G3 tower with 350 mHz and 60 gig hard drive. Good, solid machines all.

But I have recently just upgraded again, and once more the Mac has changed my life.

I used to adamantly argue with my friend Mike about laptops vs. desktops. It used to be, back in the day, that for high-end graphic work you could only trust a good old-fashioned desktop monitor and not those LCD screens those crappy lap computers came with.

A-heh. Seems the world kept on spinning while I stayed in my hole. Heard of Active Matrix screens, Agent M? Newest thing. You'll love 'em.

Another thing was that I likened laptops to cell phones. Mike and other folks I'd seen using them tended to use them to hide behind rather than actually converse. Thanks, if I'm going out to a coffee shop to meet people I actually want to MEET PEOPLE, thenkyew.

That too was misleading-- Mike and Co. weren't addicted to laptops, they were using them to hide behind because of the utter and total lack of social graces of the people around them. Which is a bad situation all around, but at least it wasn't the laptop's fault.

You've all probably guessed by now that I've bought a laptop. And you're right. Mrs. M and I are now the proud owners of an iBook G4 14" laptop, 60 gig HD, 1 GIG of Mega Hertz-so-good and a combo drive that burns cd's and cd-rw's. Plays DVD's, too.

I also got a wireless card and a wireless network installed in my house. I can now surf from anywhere in the house and if I need something from either desktop machine (mine or Mrs. M's), well, I can just LOG IN from the couch.

Some of you are saying "so what?" Because yeah, it's not like this is new technology. But in a house of po' contractors, it's like a miracle conveyed on radio waves; tiny wireless angels dancing on the head of my shiny white iPin.

I named it "mmmBook." MMM for Me and Marci McAdam and "mmm" because it's delicious and all together sounds like a too-too happy pop song by a prepubescent boy band. Does the joy never end? Apparently not.

It's only been a week and I adore the iBook: The freedom, modernization and concurrently societal bliss that it represents. God. It's just a fabulosity extravaganza in a sleek, slim white case that was everything the 1970's thought the future could be.

I licked it, by the way. So it's mine. Don't even think of stealing it.

My world is different now. My one-year-old doesn't have to yowl at the back of my head for attention; I'm up in the living room with him now, we're together in the bright sunshine room instead of the dark studio hole.

Mrs. M has moved all her artstuff upstairs too, so that she can draw in the natural light and enjoy being closer to baby M. It's like we've been PROMOTED. So from now on, we're not just Agent and Mrs. M-- we're SPECIAL Agent and Mrs. M. Because life has become that cool.

Now I just have to see if the Starbucks near us has wireless. Oh FRABJOUS day.