A New Twist in Advertising

A long time ago my mother found an encyclopedia in the bathroom. She asked my father if he was doing “some light reading” while using the facilities. He told her he didn’t know anything about it, so she decided to ask me, and what she found out surprised her very much.

It was I who’d been reading the encyclopedia in the bathroom . . . and I was 6.

I don’t know about you, but the bathroom is just plain boring. Sitting there, hanging out with nothing to do (and rarely something to look at) wears at my productive/efficient side. I feel the same way about working out. I hate going to gyms because it’s so mindless. P.S. That’s why I study the martial arts; you have to think to survive, you lose weight while building muscle, and you get to beat people up!

Anyway, so I found a way around being bored in the bathroom . . . just pick up a good book. Ever since I was six I’ve read tons of things on the porcelain throne; everything from magazines to encyclopedias to novels (no, I didn’t read the entire novel in one sitting). In fact, I’ve read the entire collected works of Shakespeare . . . in the bathroom. I was in college, I was really busy with school and work, but I wanted to read Shakespeare too, so I found the most opportune time. There’s nothing wrong with a little Bard in the Bathroom!

Anyway, since I’ve been reading in the bathroom my ENTIRE life, I’ve formed quite a habit. It’s hard to have a seat and not immediately reach for the nearest copy of Writer’s Digest or the next volume of Calvin and Hobbes. This does present a problem, though, when using bathrooms that are not my own. Many times you get lucky and the owner of the aforementioned water closet has their own reading material close at hand, but from time to desperate-time you find yourself in a public stall or in the lavatory of someone who’s illiterate.

This is what I do: if it’s a public bathroom you can use your iPod or cell phone to play games. You can also peruse the stall walls and bulk up on your ghetto slang and pithy perversions. But if you’re visiting relatives with no reading material you have to stoop pretty low. And boy do I ever.

I’ve read the backs of almost every shampoo bottle, can of hair spray, toothpaste tube, bathroom cleaner, and tissue box ever made. I can tell you how much fluoride Colgate has in it compared to Close Up. Did you know that tampons . . . ? Well, never mind.

Like I said, I get bored.

So I’m in my Aunt’s bathroom trying very hard to not give in to my Obsessive Bathroom Reading Behavior (OBRB). I fail miserably. So after reading her hairspray and toothpaste I move on to the contents of her shower, and it’s there that I stumbled upon a very annoying advertising tactic.

You knew I’d get to the point eventually.

I pick up a bottle of shampoo and find an interesting question on the back. Q: What percentage of women wear the wrong bra size?  I must admit the question intrigued me. I casually scanned the bottle for the answer but, to my dismay, I couldn’t find it. It wasn’t there. Instead of the answer I desperately wanted to know there were written very little words that read, “to find out the answer look on the back of our Conditioner.”

I couldn’t believe it! What kind of a pathetic ploy was that. The only way you can know the answer is to purchase the shampoo andthe conditioner together? Granted, I was in a very vulnerable state at the time: I was in a frilly bathroom with no reading material and I’d just been hoodwinked by a shampoo company’s marketing department.

Needless to say I scoured her shower in hopes of finding the conditioner bottle, but apparently the answer hadn’t been important to my Aunt. When I looked at the shampoo bottle again I did find an answer there, but it was obviously the answer to the question on the back of the conditioner tube! Grrr.

So, in the end, I finished my bathroom session highly annoyed. First of all, my Aunt seriously needs a magazine rack or library shelf in her bathroom (preferably with books listed using the Dewey Decimal System). Second of all, that shampoo company needs to get a life. If that’s the best you can do to get people to buy your conditioner I think you need to have a better product.

So just to spite the Big Bad Shampoo ExecsI’m not only NOT going to buy the shampoo or the conditioner, I’m also not even going to look at the bottle as I walk past it in Wal-Mart. Hmph. So there. That’s what they get for taking advantage of me in a compromising situation.

So, in retrospect, all I have to ask is, does anyone know “what percentage of women wear the wrong size bra?”

Green?

I go green . . . I don’t use my air conditioning.

Unfortunately, in my situation “green” means “greenbacks.” By not using my AC I save a lot of moo-la.

But let’s consider for a moment the “go green” phenomenon we’re being smacked in the face with these days. Firstly, I think it’s a great idea. Saving nonrenewable resources, cutting back on unnecessary waste and mindless consuming is a fantastic idea, but when do we cross the line from idealists to hypocrites?

For example: let’s consider The Green Network? Is their T.V. station going to use less electricity and water than Fox or the Playboy station? Can you really dedicate an entire station to eco-friendly news and shows, all the while burning through just as much jet fuel as everyone else does when they cart their camera crews to Uganda? Is The Green Network’s footprint really going to be smaller than everyone else’s, or are we missing the lumberjack for the trees?

A local radio station in Chicago is having a Green radio show. They’re riding their bikes to downtown Chicago where they plan to interview the pop-rock band Maroon 5. Okay, so you’re riding your bikes. Okay, so the price of admittance is a plastic bag. But c’mon people! Are you telling me Maroon 5 is going to ride their bikes to Chicago? What about all those people driving downtown with their plastic bags? Great, you recycled 300 plastic bags, but how many gallons of fuel (car and jet alike) did you burn through in the process?

It’s like having to drive 10 miles to get to the nearest recycling plant. Yeah, that makes sense.

Here’s my point: By all means, please preserve our planet . . . but don’t undo what you’re doing. We need to be careful that we don’t pull an Oedipus Rex: to save ourselves we become the tool of our own undoing.

Untraceable

 

I’m a pretty decent digital user. I can manage my computer, find almost anything on the web, and occasionally outwit a nasty virus or “hack” my own programs to make them do what I want them to do. That’s about it. Pretty normal stuff.

So when I watch movies like Untraceable, my imagination gets really fired because I don’t get any of the computer jargon they’re tossing around. And while it’s fun to believe they can do that kind of stuff, it’s also extremely scary. Can people infiltrate my computer that easily? Can they steal my life, frame me, or involve me in crime I know nothing about? Can people use the Internet to kill a person?

The thing I really liked about the movie was its platform. The message that the Internet is a dangerous place where twisted and scary things take place every single second of every single day, is a pregnant and timely message. It’s no longer about making bombs or looking at dirty pictures. It’s worse than that. You can watch people participating in the most gruesome and vial practices from bestiality, to rape; murder, to incest. It’s like the whole world is either killing someone or having sex with another. The Internet is a place for anonymous illegal activity and base animal-like behavior. It’s extreme voyeurism at its worst.

During the film a main character is tortured and killed, but in a last ditch attempt to catch the murderer he is able to pass a message to his partner who’s watching the streaming broadcast of his death. His message: “Our Suicide.” In the movie this clue helped the FBI to unravel the killer’s motive and track the perverted SOB down. But the implication of that clue for the real world is cunvulsingly potent.

“Our Suicide.”

As a people, a nation, a generation, we are actively participating in our own suicide. We are killing ourselves by allowing our families, and children, and leaders to become desensitized to the scum of the planet. I used to say that T.V. violence was nothing compared to the Coliseums of old. The ancient Romans were worse than we are because they gloried in stealing the life of innocent people. At least the actors on our plasma screens aren’t actually dying; that’s not their blood; they’ll finish the shoot, receive their check, and head home. But I believe our society won’t tolerate that for much longer. They crave real carnage, and websites like Death.com provide a forum for perverted, sado-masochistic, detestable miscreants who thrive on death and decay.

How long will it be before we start sacrificing our own Christians and televise the whole thing for all to see?

Are we really improving as a society? I don’t really think so. I think technology is revealing our truest fantasies for everyone to see . . . and many of those fantasies are very scary. In Untraceable millions and millions of people actively participated in the murder of three individuals and the attempted murder of a fourth. I believe the director’s portrayal was accurate. I fully believe that people all over the US and the world would log-on and watch every bloody second.

What can we do to stop it? Is there an answer? I believe there is, and it all starts in the home. The government needs to control the world wide web, I think that’s completely legal and necessary. But the first line of defense is to stop rearing a blood-thirsty nation. Parents, monitor your kids. Buy firewalls and filters, block the evil flowing through the fire-wire. There are plenty of people who will continue to promote and view those sights, but hopefully they’ll manage to kill themselves off and a new generation of real Americans who respect each other and are united in the success of humanity will take control.

Then instead of billions of people lusting for gore, those creators of death will find no audience and will be shunned like the vial, twisted, detestable, awful, perverted, sick, excuses for human beings they are.

By the way, if you stumbled upon this blog because you were googling ”bestiality, incest, rape, murder, killwithme.com, death, porn, sex,” or any other sick site . . . this is a message for you:

You are ”our suicide.”

The Chocolate

I love cell phones . . . or, should I say, mobile phones.

The communicatory accessibility cell phones deliver sends delighted shivers down my networking spine. I love the fact that anyone who knows my number can grab me by the sleeve whenever they want. On the flip-phone-side, I loathe those ignoramuses who spend their hard earned money on a mobile phone that resides in the land of “Lost,” or “Turned Off” ninety percent of its day.

Still, despite my adolescent-like crush on mobile phones, even they can tick me off. Normally I’m upset at the person who owns the phone, or the network that slings the phone’s signal, but today I’m upset at that matchbox-sized devil. I recently purchased the new Chocolate by LG. Let me say I’ve always loved LG’s, and even though the first Chocolate had some issues to work through, I heard they were improving on their faux pas. I had faith LG would pull through for me. And they did. The antifeatures that caused b.c.Chocolate owners to smash their phones in rage have been reworked on their A.D.Chocolate counterparts. In short, the hardware rocks . . . but the problem lies in the software.

My woes started this way. I wanted an I-Pod . . . very badly. I also needed a new phone . . . very badly. Well, how could I find  more perfect marriage of phone and MP3 player than the Chocolate? Inexpensive, yet rock’n. So I bought the Maroon Confection, but instead of euphoric groans of exstacy I found myself brushing up on a wide array of euphemisms. The MP3 software is atrocious! Converting songs, downloading them on to the phone, arranging them into playlists, actually playing the music itself . . .  AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Normally a phone’s programming is amazing even though the phone itself breaks down a year before your “New Every Two” kicks in. The Chocolates system is agonizingly weak. Verizon (which I adore as a mobile provider- p.s. congratulations commercial, bespectacled-Verizon guy on the birth of your T.V. baby!) advertises that you can put 4 gigs of music on your phone. But to actually labor through the eternal process of downloading that many songs on your Chocolate would sever the cerebral cortex and drive the user into an unrecoverable state of incensed insanity.

I saw only one way to rectify my problem. Since I loved the Chocolate’s features as it applied to phone usage, I kept the phone. But when it came to music, I bought an I-Pod.

The Post-Holiday Post

Well, it’s over.

I hope none of you are the kind of people who want to commit suicide the first of the year. It’s sad, but January is a seriously depressing month for average America. Why? The answer lies in our twisted thinking.

Too many human beings live for nothing. I don’t feel like bringing up a quasi-scientific debate or a religion-celebrating harangue, but honestly people, if all we did was evolve from monkeys . . . what’s the point of life? There is no point. That’s why corporate America lives for weekends, holidays, and vacations. People pour themselves into an imagined, forecasted event. They spend all their money preparing for the event, psych themselves into an anticipated lather, but when it’s all said and done; when the carbonated fizz of expectation has misted away to reveal the brownish reality . . . so they jump off of an expressway. The dream didn’t pan out. The vacation wasn’t long enough. It wasn’t fun enough. I’m broke because I spent too much on presents. I drank to much. Can that be all there is?

Yes my friends, if you evolved from a monkey then that’s all there is. But, if you have a higher purpose in life you can revel in the fact that there are a million more important things in life to pour yourself into than a 2 week vacation over Christmas. Enjoy the time off, but don’t contemplate ending your cousin-to-a-monkey-life because the sole goal of your existence didn’t seem as glittery up close.

It’s 2008 people! Make something of your life! The weekends will come and go, but it’s in the day-to-day grind (in the little things) that your life will find true meaning. If you don’t live for the weekend you’ll enjoy it that much more.

Happy New Year! 

Christmas Eve!

I couldn’t possibly scrawl my feelings for Christmas in a single weblog. Even though there are no pages, just endless streams of digital parchment, I don’t think my mind could interpret into words the billions of emotions and abstract webs of fascination and delight I experience at this time of year.

So here’s one little anecdote to leave you with this beautiful Christmas Eve.

I’m with family right now. My sister and I, though professional and reserved in our respective corners, are like match to fuel when we’re together. The fireworks of raucous laughter and incessant playing are contagious, nigh intoxicating. Now I just need to figure out who the match is.

The extended branches of my family get together on this most glorious Eve to celebrate the birth of our Savior. The sweet fellowship, food, and festivities will extend deep into the latest ebony, littered with rainbow lights and a deep, pale moon.

By the time the masses (approximately 30 some people) fade into the cracks and crevices from which the appeared, the remnant that’s left will try to find a relatively comfortable place to crash while we await Christ’s Day. All the beds will be packed and sleeping forms will invade the most unlikely places, including the bath tub. This reminds me of one particular prank I played on a sleeping cousin, cuddled dryly in the basin of my parent’s tub. Sigh.

My place of honor, reserved for the eldest boy, was wherever I chose. My choice? Push out the chairs and throw down a sleeping blanket . . . I’m sleeping under the dining room table. Why there? Don’t be silly, everyone knows the answer to that question.

So there we are. A house full of family, every nook and cranny nooked and crannied, me in my kerchief under the table . . . and Christmas waiting on the door step.

My narrative could continue long into the New Year, but I only wanted to share with you some of the sweet eccentricities of my family. I know most of you share in my unique love of quirky family traditions, and I’d love to hear about them. Tell me what crazy things your family does for the holidays.

Until then, this is Kevin Olsen signing off from under the dining room table. Merry Christmas and God bless.

Who Wants to be a Millionaire?

I need your help understanding something. Normally I can “wrap my brain” around very complex ideas, I’ve developed my own existential philosophies, and I consider my emotional levels to be nigh unfathomable. :-) Still, nighttime TV renders me completely flummoxed.

When “Who Wants to Be A Millionaire” first aired, it was the first of its kind to offer contestants a shot at one million dollars. But nowadays I can go on TV, sing 10 songs, and win a million dollars. I can answer 10 questions (pulled from grades 1-5) and win a million dollars. I can even open up 26 random briefcases for a chance to win a million dollars. Better yet, if I try to guess how Americans feel about poll questions I might win $10,000,000! Each of these game shows requires nothing more of me than basic elementary knowledge, memorized song lyrics, or pure dumb luck.

But if you want to showcase your own unique style of prestidigitation (an art that takes years of intense labor to refine and hone) Phenomenon will let you compete for $250,000. If you want to revolutionize your 350 lb. life by dropping that killer fat and entering into a totally healthy and life-extending existence, The Biggest Loser will let you compete for a quarter of a million dollars. Once you’ve dropped that weight you could strut your stuff on America’s Next Top Model and walk away with contracts totaling less than half a million. Better yet, if you want to parade your knowledge (amassed over years of intense scholastic endeavor by the attaining of advanced degrees) Jeopardy will let you compete for less than $100,000 a run.

I don’t get it.

Maybe it’s because I’m not smart enough to play on Jeopardy . . . but I just don’t get it. The nice thing is, I bet you I’m Smarter than a Fifth Grader. So, being smarter than a 10 year old can win me more money than multiple years of extended education!

I’m not sure if it’s a problem of new concept vs. old-school gaming. Maybe people don’t care about the super-hard stuff. Maybe dropping those deadly pounds isn’t important enough to America to drop 1 million dollars on the winner. Maybe we just like to get rich quick without having to break a sweat.

Unfortunately, I can’t give you an answer. I wish I could. I wish it made sense. But I’ll tell you this much, The Biggest Loser is the biggest winner in my book . . . a million dollars or not.

Childhood Playthings

I was recently inspired by Rhea (http://rhea7.wordpress.com/) to revist my childhood playthings. She has an amazing fascination with crayons, and though I cannot write as prolifically about my favorite addiction, it possess the same sway over my heart.

I love Play-Doh.

 

I’ve never considered myself a three-dimensional artist. I have a cousin who throws clay with the best of them, but I never quite got the hang of it. Play-Doh is no different. I couldn’t make a dog or a house. I got pretty good at snakes though! To be honest, I didn’t really want to make anything with the Play-Doh. I didn’t crack the air-tight seal of those yellow, plastic cans to form a work of art . . . I just wanted to play with the Doh! Another reason I never crafted sculptures is I’ve always hated mixing the colors. Over time you’re left with hues like “Sludge Brown” or “Insect’s Insides.” The primary colors of Play-Doh are so bright and appealing I couldn’t stand to adulterate them. So, I’d choose one shade at a time, spend hours squeezing and rolling it (making various species of snake), then carefully put it back, picking out- if necessary- any unwanted specks of different-colored Doh.

The colors are great, but I especially love the feel. I love to squish it between my fingers and mash it in my fist. If preserved properly that stuff can last for YEARS. It’s the perfect mixture of mailable-suppleness I’ve ever encountered. Well, there’re a couple things that are softer and more tender than Play-Doh . . . but this is neither the time nor the place.

Still, the most addictive thing about Play-Doh is the smell. It sounds sick, but I love to sniff Play-Doh! I’ve been known to pop open a can just to take a second’s whiff. It’s almost like a drug that calms my spirit and floods my mind with ancient moments of childish joy. I’m an extremely olfactory-focused person. I love smells, and Play-Doh is so vital. Did you know they actually made a Play-Doh cologne to celebrate it’s 50th anniversary? I haven’t been able to find a bottle to buy, but you’d better believe I will when I get my hands on one!

Play-Doh is by far one of my weaknesses. I love playing with it. I love being around people that are playing with it. I wish they made a shampoo that smelled like Play-Doh.

Call me strange. Call me childish. Call me a Play-Doh addict. That’s fine. Rhea and I will just take our crayons and Play-Doh and go home!

The Power of Shoes (or, how to keep your shoes looking nicer longer)

To say that all women collect shoes, while men view them as a necessary evil, is silly. Not all women collect shoes and I happen to be a man who loves them.

Though my collection isn’t mammoth, I’ve recently hit the 20’s. That’s right, there are twenty pairs of shoes in my closet. Go ahead, laugh. But don’t forget that one of my pairs is for studying the martial arts. You wouldn’t be the first person those shoes have kicked in the . . . .

Anyway. I view shoes the same way I look at shirts; no one wears the same shirt everyday! It’s a question of good fashion sense. Different shirts go with different pants. Some shirts look better under a sweater, and others need to be paired with the right jacket or tie. Shoe classification is just as detailed. For a guy, it’s an absolute necessity to own one pair of black shoes and another pair of brown. The second you put on a brown belt you’d better make sure your shoes are brown. Unless, of course, you’re wearing sneakers (the blue jeans of the podiatry) . . . which go with just about anything except dress slacks.

Secondly, despite the fashion ramifications of owning a variety of shoes, you have wear-and-tear to think about. I own shoes that were purchased in the fall of 1997. That may not earn me a place in Ripley’s or Guinness, but it keeps my shoes looking brand new. 

Lastly, the best way to build a shoe empire is to not pay full price for them. I am in no way a shoe snob. Half of my shoes were purchased at the Salvation Army and Goodwill. Why, you ask? Number one, you’d never know to look at them. I’ve always said look like you spend a lot of money on your clothes . . . but don’t. That ties in with number two, they only cost me three dollars. Full-price Doc. Martins go as well with a writer’s income as black leather shoes and a brown belt.

Shoes rule (almost as much as socks) and with a little know how and few dollar bills you can create quite a diversified, well maintained, fashionable, and inexpensive collection that will last you for years to come.

I don’t have enough time.

Who has enough time? Why does it seem impossible to complete the minuscule list of tasks you prepared for today? Do we really not have enough time, or are we using the time we have incorrectly?

There are few people alive today who remember long evenings spent on the front porch gossiping with neighbors or watching children play stick ball in the street. The days of snuggling up with a good book have all but come to an end, and just like the final chapter of a novel; we yearn for more. But how is this possible? Do we really have more responsibilities than generations past? Can it be said our hectic lives are busier than the pilgrims, tougher than mountain men, or more hazardous than the Aborigines?

In truth, we do have more on our plates than those who’ve gone before. A ancient farmer may wake up at 4 am to feed the animals, milk the cows, collect eggs, and prepare the fields. He may work until dusk planting, tending, and harvesting. But how many of us wake up early to prepare our children for school, then bare the burden of a morning commute, listening to our self help CD’s, to push ourselves eight to fifteen hours to earn a paycheck, a promotion, a chance, and upon returning home help the kids with homework, then cart them to soccer/gymnastics/karate/swimming/cheerleading, throw together a decent dinner, play with the youngsters before re-writing that proposal or fixing that pocket or preparing the house for the coming day? We all do.

And the reason we have so much to do? Well, technology has given the opportunity to complete far more tasks in a shorter period of time. But since planting a field is easier, and writing a paper is easier, and building a home is easier, then we have so much more time to pack in a little extra. Sign up for a literary club. Go ahead and take that art class. Get another degree, or just visit the library. And since those things are easier to do then ever before, we may have some more time to . . . .

Is it really bad to get more done? Is it wrong to accomplish our tasks efficiently and quickly? No. So why aren’t we fulfilled? Why do we refer to life as a rat race, dog-eat-dog, and like a marathon with no visible end? Life sucks then you die. Why? The answer is simple . . .

Poor priorities.

Imagine completing your job responsibilities, and nothing else. Pretend you live in a world where you’re only required to do the activities that maintain life. Technology makes it easy to blast past the important stuff, and if you scrutinize your life you’d see that the important issues of life aren’t the ones that bury you. At the end of the day, the tasks that leave you feeling wilted and half-dead are the ones you don’t need to do.

Sometimes you don’t need to do it right now. Sometimes you don’t need to do it today. Sometimes you don’t need to do it at all. Sure, you can spare an extra hour for that swim lesson . . . but should you? Is there something else more important you need to do? Watching a movie might sound grand, but is it going to interfere with a task that cannot wait? What if you threw out the veggie steamer, the hot dog cooker, the Foreman Grill, the sandwich maker, the deep fryer, the over-sized griddle (with special slots for frying sausages), and just use a pan? The point is, more often than not we complicate life simply by living it.

“We complicate life simply by living it.”

Honestly, we don’t need all the technology, all the advances, all the social programs, all the lessons, and all the classes to live a fulfilled life. Not that technology is terrible or time-consuming activities are bad, the problem is we don’t know how to balance them. If you feel overwhelmed by life you need to cut something out! Start with the stuff you don’t need to do. Pair away the bands until you can breath again. You’ll finally reach a place where you canget your work done. You’ll discover there is free-time treasure at the end of the proverbial work-day rainbow. And the good news is, as you become more adept at making schedules and sorting priorities you’ll learn you can comfortably add more columns to your to-do list without buying a casket with silky lining.

So before you download your entire music library to your i-pod, or enroll in the night-meeting of insomniacs anonymous, or slap down in front of the tube for a 10-hour marathon of Monk . . . finnish the important tasks. Prepare yourself for tomorrow’s work, and when you’ve reached the point you have no top-priorities left then feel free to enjoy yourself.

My mother used to say, “you can go out and play when your chores are done.” My mom was a sage.

A Social Commentary

Despite the fact I was born in the North, I’ve spent a great deal of time down south, specifically North & South Carolina. As I got to know the people there I was struck by a very interesting observation.

If you ask the average Northerner what their thoughts are about the South, your typical answer will be along the lines of, “I don’t know. I think some of it has more hills. Isn’t most all of it farmland?” The general consensus is the South is just “more spread out.”

If you ask the average Southerner what their thoughts are about the North . . . you’d better sit down and get comfy, and it’s probably best not to let them know you’re from the North. First of all, you’re going to hear that Northeners drive too fast. In fact, they do everything to quickly. You’ll probably be told that you (Northerners) are ruder than your southern counterparts. While the South, on the other hand, is extremely friendly. During the conversation they may actually even use the word “Yankee.” Next, you’ll be interested to know . . . . And at this point they may eventually trail into some extended dialogue on the Civil War.

Now, please, if you’re from the South you may say “I’d never do that!” Wonderful! I’m simply relating my experiences from 8 years of intimate contact with the South, while trying not to be over-stereotypical. And believe it or not, I’m coming to a very poignant point.

The Civil War is over. No one alive today was involved with the Civil War. Slavery no longer exists in America. The North is not in some kind of competition with the South. And this may sound heretical, but the equal-rights movement has been fought . . . and won. There are very few people alive today who even existed when it happened.

So why can’t people let it go?

I believe that the racism that exists today, the bigotry, the intolerance for superficial differences, all stem from an inability to move on. The good fight was fought. The blood was shed, and now we live in a country where the vast majority of people don’t care what color your skin is or where you were born or what your sex is.  Yet interestingly enough bigotry still exists. So where does it come from?

The majority of bigotry and hatred in America today stems the people who were, at one point, the object of hatred. I’ll use racism as an example. I don’t know a single white person who hates a black person. I don’t even know any white people who look down on black people because of their skin color. Of course that doesn’t mean white-racists don’t exist. It simply means I don’t know any. But I do know many black people who hate white people, or who dislike them because they’re white.

Interestingly enough, much of their hatred isn’t born from actual offenses received against themselves, but perceived offenses other people suffered. These “perceived offenses” most often start with an event that happened so long ago there’s no one left who was there to see it. The “bussing” for example. Yes, at that time most white people treated black people poorly, but not any more. So, after dwelling on the initial perceived offense, people start to interpret others actions in the light of the ancient perception. “That person was rude to me, they’re probably racist.” They assume they know the motivation of other people. I don’t know about you, but my mind reading skills left me the day I realized I wasn’t God.

In the end, many people like what I’ve described actually become the racist. Sure, they may have been discriminated against, and probably disliked, and definitely treated poorly by one person or another . . . but most times those things didn’t happen because of their skin color. It may have happened because the other person had a bad day or because the offendee was being a jerk (God forbid). But by assuming every time I’m treated poorly it’s due to my skin, I begin to hate the people who hate me.

Unfortunately, in the world we live in, there are more black people who hate white people than the other way around. The black community has black schools, radio stations, magazines, months, t.v. shows, clubs, etc. If a white person ever showed that kind of discrimination it would be labeled a hate crime and they’d be crucified by the Reverend.

My point is simple. If you hate someone because of what they’re ancestors did to you . . . you’re wrong. If you dislike someone because you think you know why they’re unkind to you . . . you’re wrong. And that goes for people with the same ethnicity. If you’re a Latino and another Latino is cruel to you, and you assume you know the reason . . . you’re wrong. If you have gone so far that you actually hate/dislike/can’t abide/or disassociate yourself from an ethnic group, a geographical location, or social standing . . . you are dead wrong.

Hatred and bigotry will never die as long as people can’t move on. Let go of the past injustices. Let go of the ancient feuds. And for goodness sake, let go of your own bigotry. Think of it this way . . . the world won’t change it you don’t. Why should men stop hating women if women won’t stop hating men? You do your part, and even if the rest of the world won’t change, at least you can die knowing you were the better person.

If everyone just did what was right the Mason/Dixon would disappear, everyone would become color blind, and sex would be something people do, not something they are.