In light of my somewhat depressing post of earlier today I’ve decided to post something pretty mindless.

And all that bring us to (drum roll) Sculptured Pouch Underwear! While Fireheart and I were in Concord trying vainly to get some business at the DMV done we decided to go to WalMart to try to get Fire some new work clothes. It was in this bastion of taste and brain damage that I stumbled across Jockey brand Sculptured Pouch Underwear. In fairness, this is also a store that carries a line of clothing called Fashion Scrubs.

Hopefully I didn’t screw the pooch (or pouch) and you can see a picture of JSPU. It is just what it sounds like, underwear with a semi-rigid bulging front for men who wish they were well endowed enough to need such a thing. Now, I like to think that I am not a prude, but there was something disturbing about packaging like this being placed in the full view of children. This unique design enhancement is available in a wide range of styles for men of all tastes.

I am trying to decide what the development meeting looked like where this product was pitched. I am imagining that one really well hung man came up with the idea and no one else had the balls so to speak to point out that the market was probably limited. I don’t own this particular product but from what I could see, and I wasn’t about to go squeezing any packages standing there in WalyWorld, it doesn’t seem that there is enough rigidity to present much of a bulge under ones clothing unless one has the endowments to fill the pouch. This product is designed for men with big bits and men who want to simplify the process of stuffing their underwear with balled up socks. How big a market can this possibly be?

This was one of the only times I had ever been into one of these WalMart SuperCenters and I can tell you it was a truly bizarre experience. As I was standing in the clothing department while Fireheart looked for clothing she could bear to wear in a size that fit her and trying not to marvel at the aforementioned pouch underwear, my eyes kept sliding away to watch the other shoppers going about their business. Not because they were so interesting in and of themselves. Rather, I just couldn’t get over looking at underwear or Fashion Scrubs (real things, look ‘em up online) while fifteen feet away people were shopping for fruit. I don’t mean that gay guys were cruising each other. I mean that the produce section was next to the clothing section. This is a store where you can buy car tires, a shotgun, fabric by the yard, an entertainment center, a pineapple, sculptured underwear, and then get money out from the bank to pay to get your hair and nails done, buy new eye glasses and have portrait photos taken. All without ever leaving the store.

Standing in a WalMart SuperCenter you can easily see why people say bad things about WalMart’s ethics and effect on an area. The place is huge and overwhelming. Many of the items sold in the store are low quality and/or made in places with truly questionable work practices. If WalMart is Satan then the US economy has encouraged us all to sell our mortal souls. Would we love to never go there again? Fuck yes! Unfortunately, with what Summer, Fire and I make, we simply have to do some of our shopping there. Students at Hampshire used to bitch and moan and tell us all never to go there. Of course, it was at Hampshire that I saw a student get out of a brand new BMW with the bumper sticker “I’d rather be smashing imperialism” so go figure.

There are those in and out of the spirit work and pagan communities who say that WalMart is a sign of the rot eating at our society and they may have a point. I think that they miss the bigger picture though. In a world that includes Jockey brand Sculpted Pouch Underwear, don’t we have bigger worries than suppercenters or worldwide terrorism.

Besides, if you bark in a store the size of some town centers people are less likely to notice.

I went bat-shit crazy on Summer today over the phone. He was supposed to take care of picking some things up where we used to live and also pay some bills. He didn’t do either. That said, I totally lost it, and not in a terribly justifiable way. We are under a great deal of strain right now, much of it financial. For instance we have to get Summer a new piece of shit car to replace the current piece of shit car he is driving. Since he used to have a good reliable car which was shot to pieces by the homophobe who used to be our neighbor, this makes us all a bit bitter. The fact that his folks wouldn’t help us out afterwards makes Fire and I a lot bitter. His current car is a death trap. It was a death trap when it was first built 15 years ago. He has a 120mi commute every day. The car he is replacing it with was at least a great car when it was new 12 years ago, but now has 200,000mi on it.

None of this is really a good excuse for being an asshole though. Summer is almost certainly under at least as much strain as Fire or I am. I am not sure why my temper is so short in the last few days. I know that being sick and having poison ivy is part of it, but mostly it is just me.

Until last weekend I had a really good idea of what I was doing with my life. I was just making it through these ordeals and shaman sickness. Now though, I feel rather adrift. This is not a feeling I am comfortable with. The only thing worse than not being up to a job is the feeling of being trained, skilled and ready to go and then not having a clear job to do. It isn’t like there isn’t spooky work I could be doing. It is just that I feel like I don’t know how to prioritize all the little things and that there isn’t a clear JOB that needs doing. I am also getting the really strong feeling that I need to be working on ways to make the spooky thing pay. Great fun.

So I was planning on waiting a while before posting this particular gem. However, it turns out that Fireheart promised some folks at KC that it’d soon be up. This just means I will have to go back to actually writing new stuff sooner than I had planned. So with some revisions here it is:

Oh, Oh, OOOHHH! The Healing Purple Pill

How’s this for an add campaign you are not likely to see any time soon: Our add opens with a man in his late 20’s facing the camera. He has that look on his face that people get in TV adds. I am sure you know the face I am talking about. The “I am about to disclose highly personal information which I wouldn’t tell my mother but I’ll tell the national TV audience.” This face is then followed by a slightly melancholy description of their struggle with genital herpes/hemorrhoids/menstrual cramps/or the circumstances which lead to the purchase of adult diapers.

This is in fact an appropriate way to begin our hypothetical advertisement, as I wrote this essay originally while sitting at my mother’s kitchen table. Like most of my essays, I suspect this is not something she probably should read.

So, back to our serious young man in the TV add. After a brief pause so that our hypothetical audience can take in the fact that this is a serious young man, he begins to speak.

“Acid reflux disease can cause discomfort or even pain. It also can wear away at the lining of your esophagus. What many people don’t realize is that acid reflux disease can cause pain for those we love as well.” He is really looking serious now. “I never realized how badly acid reflux disease was wearing away at my relationship as well as my insides.” At this point we could have another attractive man walk into the frame and put his arm around the speaker’s shoulders. This second man should probably be more masculine looking as well.

Our speaker continues “With acid reflux I was always in pain. Especially” his eyes flit downward “down there. After spending so much time in the bathroom, I didn’t have the strength for our usually activities” a coy glance at young man number two.

At this point the speaker’s eyes light up and looking straight at the camera he says cheerfully “Now, thanks to the ‘healing purple pill’™, my boyfriend can make love to me as long as he wants. Now we just have to make up for lost time.”

Ok, so I probably won’t make it in the cutthroat world of advertising. Still, here is a way to get to the, um heart of the gay community. We queers have digestive problems too, but for us it is not just about getting to eat the food that we want.

Many of you know that I have a broken bone in my neck (the C-7 spinal process broke off as consequence of some of my tics). After I left college I had to seek out a new primary care doctor. The guy I found was friendly and understood some of my issues, but he did not get the Tourette and he did not get the neck thing. Now I realize I should have left to find someone else but I didn’t. As my neck pain got worse he perscribed 2000mg of ibuprofen a day.

I come from a family with a history of digestive problems including the afore mentioned acid reflux (adding the word “disease” in adds seems to make the product sell better, but I think it’s stupid). With the ibuprofen and a nasty set of stomach tics I had stomach acid problems pretty fucking bad. When I complained to the doctor he informed me that I had to choose between my neck and my stomach. Since I couldn’t do the job I was in with my neck fucked up, I choose the stomach. I should have chosen door three: a new doctor.

Since I am really and truly fried from my recent ordeals I am going to intermittently post older but relevant writings which led me to start this thing in the first place. I tell this particular story often but this is my blog and I’m damn well going to tell it again here. I think it’s good for a laugh and rather than require the thought needed to write a new post, it just required some editing. Enjoy.

It’s always interesting to see what element or elements of my life people relate to, or are repulsed by. The plus side of being me is that I almost always can find some area of commonality with people I meet in the course of a day. The down side is that there is pretty much always something that the same person would not be ok with.

An illustration: One of the non-central but significant things about me is that I am a gun owner. This wasn’t always the case but an event last year convinced me and my family to “arm-up” as a friend calls it. Although I purchased my first gun in response to this little incident, I have discovered two interesting facts about myself. One is that I really enjoy shooting. The other is that when I keep in practice I am quite good at it.

In order to stay good at it I feel it is important to practice my shooting on a regular basis, not to mention that I find it quite relaxing. I know that sounds pretty absurd if you haven’t tried it, but it is true, at least for me.

When this story took place, we lived in Veromont and shot at the local National Guard Armory range because it had a partial roof and we live in the frozen north. My partners and I find it somewhat ironic that the we used to shoot pretty much weekly at the Guard range, when in fact many of the guard probably didn’t, but of course we are all banned from military service because queers don’t belong in combat. I couldn’t serve anyway with the barking like a dog thing and the broken neck thing, but that’s not the point is it?

Last fall my partners Summer and Fire and I went to the guard range on a Sunday morning. We brought Dani with us, a young woman who was trying to experience the guardian and warrior archetype and whose mentor asked me to take her out to the range. The disaster which was Dani with a gun will have to wait for another time. It was what was sure to be one of the last warm days of the year and I had chosen to wear my black Utilikilt, which for those of you who don’t know is a modern kilt made by a great company in Seattle Washington.

Just as we were packing to leave, a gentleman drove up in an older Ford F-150 pickup. Now I know this is stereotyping. But when an older dude in plaid drives up to a shooting range in a beaten on pickup my sphincter just tightens up. The fact is that where we were living in Southern Vermont the rednecks well outnumber the artsy queers. This time it seems my stereotyping was spot on.

Seeing that I was carrying two pretty significant pistols (we were loading the cars to leave) he immediately struck up a conversation with me. If you are going to own a gun, you have to get used to random people approaching you and complaining about the “evils of liberalism.” Since we live near Massachusetts, this sometimes takes the form of bitching about “the People’s Republic or Massachusetts” as many good-old-boys both in Vermont and in New Hampshire where we now live call it.

Now I grew up in Mass, and while I strongly disagree with the degree of restrictions they place on gun ownership, which hasn’t seemed to make places, like the shit-sucking city I grew up in any safer, I agree with most everything else there. Aside of course for the cost of living and doing business which is how my partners and I found our way to Vermont. That said it is not generally a good idea to let folks know you feel this way. Especially when you are pretty much guaranteed the folk in question has at least one gun, accidents can happen.

So I took the coward’s way out. I smiled a bit distantly, busied myself with getting everything back into the car, grunted distantly in the appropriate places and prayed to my gods and anyone else’s who would listen that he did not notice the bumper stickers on my partner Fire’s car (One is an anti-circumcision sticker, the other reads “last time we mixed politics and religion people got burned at the stake). Once Fire and Summer had driven off I shut the rear hatch of my wagon and almost leapt in. As I wished the gentleman a nice day of shooting, he hesitated a moment before leaning close to my open window. In a low conspiratorial voice he said:

“Say, are you folks like one of those undercover narcotics units?”

When you have Tourette Syndrome and have barked like a dog for the last 13 years you get used to people asking strange or unexpected questions. On the other hand, there are some questions that you never in a million years think someone will ask. This was high on that second list. Clearly this was the only way to make sense of what he was seeing. Four twenty-something’s in somewhat hip clothing (we were heading down to Northampton MA so Dani could get a tattoo in a few hours), but with guns.

Since we clearly looked like the young, liberal kids he so dislikes, but had guns and could make conversation with him, we couldn’t be what we seemed. Clearly I was not the only one here engaged in stereotyping. I should note that in truth, I was the only one who could make conversation. Dani was fumming in a gods-be-praised, silent fashion, and Fire and Summer drove off as soon as their car was loaded.

The only hypothesis that fit the evidence for this individual was that our outward appearance was some sort of disguise. I probably could have taken this opportunity to do some sort of education or horizon broadening. It is distantly possible that I could have explained who we are and he and I could have had a useful dialog which would have left us both richer people for the experience. I didn’t.

Another lesson that Tourette teaches you is that you have to pick your battles and this failed to meet my standards of worth-it. More significantly though, in the back of my head from the moment he asked his question was Erny Hudson in the film Ghostbusters saying “Ray, when someone asks you ‘are you a god,’ you say Yes!” Since impersonating an officer of the law is a crime, I leaned in closer and said equally conspiratorially.

“Of course not.

So before I even got a chance to write about the 3^rd ordeal in more detail than “It sucked, I lived” I had to complete the fourth one. The 4^th took place as part of Keeper’s Crossing, which is for any who don’t know, a tiny international gathering of spirit workers, shamans and god spouses that is held at Cauldron Farm once a year. The last ordeal needed to be held in the presence of my community, and while I enjoy being a part of Asphodel, the gang at KC is more clearly a community of my peers.

This ordeal was administered by Lydia Helasdottir who was out from Europe for the weekend. I am not going to go into any great detail here, at least not right now. I will say that the ordeal involved being hoisted up off the ground on flesh hooks through my back while members of my community watched and/or assisted in the process of my being essentially ritually consumed while I hung screaming. Yeah, fun.

That said, I do feel better now in some ways than I have since the serious shaman sickness started just about one year ago. I don’t know if it is fair to say that I am done with shaman sickness or not. I do know that I have cleared an incredible set of hurdles and that now I suspect I will really have to get to work.

Keeper’s Crossing is a pretty darn private event and I will not be relating much about it here out on the internet. I will say on that score that it was another incredible experience, as it was last time, and it was wonderful to renew friendships and make new ones. Boy that makes it sound even more like “shaman camp” as one participant described it.

Now I get the fun of figuring out where to go from here with my spooky life. I do know that I am going to be administering ordeals for people and I need to get the tools together for putting hooks in people for pulling for starters. I also know that I am going to need to figure out about doing readings for strangers instead of just for friends and friends of friends. The Lady has made it pretty plain that Tashlin is going to be becoming more of a public entity in the next while and that is going to really take some getting used to.